


In the Face of Fear

by Duinemerwen



Series: Denial is a River in Egypt [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthurian legend - Freeform, Betrayal, Bodyswap, Canon Compliant, Canon Continuation, Denial of Feelings, Excalibur, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Internal Conflict, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Pining, Romance, Seduction, Shibboleths, Slow Burn, Swords, Torture, badassery, denial is a river in egypt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-06-29 21:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19838476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duinemerwen/pseuds/Duinemerwen
Summary: Hastur spies Crowley and Aziraphale switching bodies after their tribunal, and plots his revenge. The two are forced to find their courage and confront the truth between them. Featuring angsty mistaken identity shenanigans, two beings who can't seem to talk about their feelings, Denial as a river in Egypt, and the sword Excalibur!Standalone, canon-compliant work. Complete.Aziraphale raised his hands to his temples, sweeping the square for prying eyes and ears. “Nobody,” said the angel. “Right. Swap back, then.” They grasped each other’s hands. In a fluid sweep, Aziraphale became Crowley, and Crowley became Aziraphale again.Unfortunately, that is where Crowley - who had been wearing Aziraphale’s face - had been wrong about the state of surveillance in Berkeley Square. Hastur, Duke of Hell, lurked behind them, near the refuse bins. His fury blended in perfectly with the malodour of decomposing food waste and dog shit, like maggots on a choice bit of roadkill. Noticeable if you prodded the corpse in the appropriate places, but why would you? Crowley’s sweep had slid right over Hastur, like a tourist’s eyes over a tramp.





	1. Prologue: And a Demon Lurked in Berkeley Square

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place right after the end of the 2019 miniseries, in which Aziraphale and Crowley appear to escape punishment by hellfire and holy water, respectively. 
> 
> Thanks to SilchasRuin and GraphiteGirl for betaing!
> 
> February 2020 note - This was the first story I ever wrote. After I finished it, I went back and wrote some more. So I'm not entirely happy with this one anymore, and I may have to rewrite it one day. It's still alright, though.

An angel and a demon sat on a park bench in Berkeley Square. It was a beautiful day, made even more beautiful by their recent escape from the bureaucratic shackles of their respective head offices.

“Do you think they’ll leave us alone, now?” said Aziraphale.

“At a guess, they’ll pretend it never happened,” said Crowley. “Right. Is anybody looking?”

Aziraphale raised his hands to his temples, sweeping the square for prying eyes and ears. “Nobody,” the angel said. “Right. Swap back, then.” They grasped each other’s hands. In a fluid sweep, Aziraphale became Crowley, and Crowley became Aziraphale again.

Unfortunately, that is where Crowley - who had been wearing Aziraphale’s face - had been wrong about the state of surveillance in Berkeley Square. Hastur, Duke of Hell, lurked behind them, near the refuse bins. His fury blended in perfectly with the malodour of decomposing food waste and dog shit, like maggots on a choice bit of roadkill. Noticeable if you prodded the corpse in the appropriate places, but why would you? Crowley’s sweep had slid right over Hastur, like a tourist’s eyes over a tramp.

He was still seething over Ligur’s demise in a puddle of holy water. Ligur had been a reliable colleague. A demon’s demon, as it were.

He was even angrier that Crowley had escaped justice at their tribunal. Or, not justice, strictly, but retribution. Demons didn’t usually fuss about scaling their justice appropriately. Crowley deserved far worse than a bathtub of holy water, as far as Hastur was concerned, and he had also been sorely disappointed in Hell’s reluctance to prosecute Crowley further. And now that he knew Crowley had indeed been bluffing, with an angel's help -

Scowling, Hastur vaporized a pile of cigarette butts in a small puff of hellfire. The smoke was quite carcinogenic, and normally, Hastur would have eked a little delight from the act. But today, he just glared at the scorch mark on the ashtray where the butts had been. Consignment of everyday objects to hellfire had been more Ligur’s forte, and Ligur remained unavenged and unrecognized by Hell. Hastur would have to exert justice alone.

The angel, though only peripherally involved in Ligur’s untimely destruction, had to be neutralized too. Hastur was not quite certain about the nature of Aziraphale’s relationship with Crowley. But he was very, very good at the damnation of souls, and demonic allurement, and that kind of personalized temptation that Crowley had given up in favour of mass-produced miseries. And he could recognize a weak spot when he saw one.

So as Crowley and Aziraphale left for a spot of lunch, Hastur plotted.

 _Two birds with one stone_ , he thought.


	2. Chapter One: Excalibur

“You got your sword back, at least,” said Crowley, as he and Aziraphale finished up their well-deserved lunch at the Ritz. He polished off the last of the cream cakes without asking Aziraphale if he wanted any. 

Aziraphale wiped his mouth daintily with a napkin. “Yes. I couldn’t give it up - it might be useful sometime.” 

“You did fine without it for six thousand years,” said Crowley. 

“That was before Armageddon,” said Aziraphale. “Or Armageddon’t, if you like. Things are different now. We can’t count on the support of head office, so it can’t hurt to have... insurance.” 

“Insurance against what?” asked Crowley. “We’d convinced the powers-that-be to leave us alone with that gambit.”

“To leave us alone _for now_ ,” said Aziraphale impatiently. “They might forget about the stunt we pulled in a few centuries.” He picked up the salt and pepper shakers. “ _Oh, Archangel Gabriel, they’re just two renegades, should we tie up the loose ends?_ ” He bobbed the salt shaker animatedly. “ _Oh yes, Archangel Michael, I haven’t the faintest clue why they’re still flapping about on earth, I’ll send down some a field team to deal with them,_ ” he voiced for the pepper shaker. “ _Jolly good, Archangel Gabriel, a bit of holy smiting should get the job done,_ ” he finished, waving the saltshaker again. Aziraphale set the salt and pepper shakers back down. “And that’s how it’s going to go,” he finished, somewhat grimly. 

Crowley felt a little bit disturbed imagining the Archangels Michael and Gabriel as condiment shakers, but the point stood. “Alright then, you’ve made your case,” he conceded. “That sword in the deliveryman’s box, that was...?”

“Well, for now it’s a sword, but in a few decades it’ll remember it’s just a tire iron.” 

“What do you mean, _just_ a tire iron?” asked Crowley. 

Aziraphale eyed Crowley. “Dear boy, you have to admit that facing Satan himself with a tire iron was a dubious choice. Don’t they issue you with something more _standard_ down below?” he said, nodding downwards. 

“And fill out all the requisition forms, in quintuplicate, have it approved by the next four people up your chain of command, and bribe three of my fellow demons for six-page character references?” Crowley shuddered. “I don’t think so.” He snapped his fingers at the waiter, who appeared at the table with the bill, as quickly as if he’d been miracled from thin air. 

“Allow me, my dear,” said Aziraphale. He pulled a biscuit-crumbed wad of notes from the breast pocket of his jacket and tucked it inside the leather cheque holder. Turning his attention back to Crowley, he said, “Still, a tire iron? Thought you might have opted for something with more... panache.” They stood up from the table together. 

“A tire iron has plenty of panache,” said Crowley. 

“If you were a common hooligan, perhaps.”

“It’s a perfectly functional weapon -”

“A tire iron hasn’t the constitution to withstand being lit on fire-” 

“- as if that would have helped, Satan’s office is _literally_ a flaming pit of misery -” 

“- _divine fire_ , Crowley, you know, imbue it with a bit of extra power, something suitable for discorporating your foes for good, rending their souls in two and sending them to meet their maker -” 

“- who died and made you quartermaster?” asked Crowley, rounding on Aziraphale as they stepped into the street. “You get your sword back for all of _five minutes_ and now you’re harping on about the martial superiority of such and such. I’ve never even seen you fight anybody with it.”

“Smiting works better at range,” said Aziraphale. “Best to keep your foes at a distance.”

“I’d heard it differently. The humans have a different saying: ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’” 

“If by _the humans_ you mean that actor fellow -” 

“Or Niccolò Machiavelli,” continued Crowley smoothly. “Or Sun Tzu-” 

“- which are common misattributions; I’ll have you know that neither of them ever wrote anything to that effect -” 

“Not everything is in books, angel,” said Crowley smugly. 

“But the most interesting parts are,” said Aziraphale, undeterred. They climbed into Crowley’s Bentley. Street parking was terribly scarce in that part of London. Every time Crowley found a parking space close to his destination was a minor miracle, so much that he’d resorted to creating his own parking spaces at times. He hadn’t stooped so low as to obtain an Accessible Parking Permit, but he’d tempted himself frequently. 

“For example,” Aziraphale continued, and floundered momentarily. “Er.” He changed the subject. “What I’m trying to say, Crowley, is that it might be good for you to have a weapon that isn’t a tire iron.” 

“And puncture the leather in my car?” scoffed Crowley. 

“Yes, because your wings get awfully cramped in the automobile cabin,” said Aziraphale peevishly. “Divine swords work the same way, metaphysically speaking. Once it’s yours you can just manifest it whenever it’s convenient. And tuck it away whenever it isn’t. Can’t do that with a tire iron, my dear. Can’t even raise divine flames on it - it’d just crumble away.”

Crowley considered that. The angel had a point. It might be useful to have some extra protection against the powers-that-be. Their last set of “performance reviews” at head office had gone as smoothly as might be expected under the circumstances, but having a flaming sword as insurance would definitely be safer and more versatile than toting a thermos of holy water around in the boot of the Bentley. “Alright,” he conceded. “I assume you have something in mind for me already?” 

Aziraphale beamed. “Indeed I do! See, my divine sword is not the _only_ divine sword currently on Earth.”

“How many of them are there, exactly?” 

“Oh, a few dozen. Some of them have been lost through the millennia-” at this, Crowley coughed significantly and Aziraphale pinked “- as their owners were unmade, or as they were given away -” Aziraphale raised his voice to continue over Crowley’s second sudden coughing fit “- without filling out the applicable property transfer forms.”

“Given away?” repeated Crowley. 

“Well, the Sword of Attila - that one was from one of yours -” 

“- Oh yeah, Abraxas, he got demoted for that -”

“- And Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi, that was from one of ours. But the one that is currently most accessible to us, from a logistical standpoint, is Excalibur.” 

“Lady of the Lake one of yours too?”

“Yes, back when Michael still did fieldwork. The humans say the Lady of the Lake traded the sword for a boon, or for Arthur to watch over her son, or for something else equally daft. Michael didn’t ask for anything in return, though she entrusted the sword to Arthur specifically so that he could uphold the chivalric virtues. Excalibur never flamed in Arthur’s hands, but it did shine brightly enough to blind his enemies. Funny story about Michael, once she materialized in the middle of a banquet and -” 

“No, hang on there, Arthur threw it back into the lake when his nephew murdered him. Michael would have repossessed it.” 

“Michael didn’t do fieldwork for long,” said Aziraphale. “Just for a bit of time when Heaven was in the middle of a restructuring. Far more angels running around those days, answering prayers willy-nilly, passing out miracles like communion wafers. Anyways, he was recalled, and nobody caught the sword - it hit the lake and sank straight to the bottom. Nobody bothered to go and get it afterwards, because who really wants to go digging around in a muddy lakebed? Michael marked it as an overhead expense in her budget and that was that.

“Until the lake finally dried up a few years ago. A developer made an application to pave it over and turn it into a shopping centre, but during their Environmental Impact Assessment they unearthed the remains of a battlefield, some huts, the usual assortment of broken pottery. 

“It was the archeological find of the decade,” he concluded happily. 

“Uh-huh,” snorted Crowley. “And I suppose you know where it is now.” Aziraphale proffered a glossy leaflet, white text on black, and he opened it with his left hand. 

_The British Museum_

_Presents a Special Exhibition_

_Out of the Dark Ages:_

_Legends of Cornwall_

“The opening gala happens to be next Saturday evening,” Aziraphale added airily. 

Paying even less attention to the road than usual, Crowley turned bodily around and raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “You’d like to steal the sword _Excalibur_ from the _British Museum_ at the exhibition’s opening gala.”

“I’m sure I said nothing of that sort. _Stealing_ is certainly more your area of expertise than mine.” Aziraphale said, with careful neutrality. “But - well, take books as an example. Books were meant to be _read_ , not to languish in a humidity-controlled vault for all eternity. Swords, they’re much the same. Better off in _someone’s_ hands than under glass.” 

“Even if it’s in a demon’s hands?” asked Crowley sardonically. 

“In this particular case? Absolutely.” 

Crowley sighed gustily. “This is really happening, isn’t it?” 

“You may pick me up from my bookshop, next Saturday at seven,” said the angel. 

∽⧖∼ 

The Bentley pulled up in front of A.Z. Fell and Co. at seven-fifteen. 

“Good G- Good grief, what are you wearing?” said Crowley, as Aziraphale scooped himself into the passenger seat. 

“It’s temporally appropriate,” protested Aziraphale. He was garbed in a flaxen tunic over woolen leggings. A wool cloak was wrapped around his shoulders, fastened with a golden disc brooch at the shoulder. 

“Please, it does nothing for your figure,” groaned Crowley. “This whole plan will go over so much more easily if we could _try_ to blend in with the humans.” Aziraphale pouted and Crowley’s resolve wavered.

“You’ve hardly made an effort at all,” said Aziraphale. “You aren’t afraid of changing up your look a bit, are you?” 

“Change is for humans. I’m perfectly comfortable as I am,” said Crowley, gesturing at the outfit he’d been wearing nearly every day for three decades. 

“Is it comfort or cowardice?” asked Aziraphale. 

“If cowardice means not wearing _temporally appropriate_ garb, then I shan’t be ashamed of being a coward. First it’ll be the tunic and the leggings, and then it’ll be ruffs, and hose, and codpieces -” 

“Crowley -” 

“And don’t get me started on the pannier skirts and -”

“Crowley!” 

Crowley sighed grimly. “We’ll compromise. You can keep that... cloak. And I’ll... accessorize,” he said, drawing the last word out into a hiss. 

They shook hands in agreement. Aziraphale’s tunic and leggings morphed into his everyday tan suit, and Crowley summoned a small golden crown to rest on top of his head. Barely a circlet, really.

“I suppose that will have to do,” said Aziraphale. 

“Suppose it will,” replied Crowley. 

He drove them to the museum, ignoring the valet and parking it on the head curator’s reserved spot. 

Aziraphale made to unlock the passenger door, but succeeded in only jiggling the window crank. Crowley groaned. “You’ll break it right off, angel. Allow me.” He climbed out of the driver’s side of the Bentley and walked around to open the door on Aziraphale’s side of the car. “There you go,” he said, offering a hand to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale took it and climbed out of the car. “Awfully chivalrous of you tonight,” he said. 

Crowley hissed at the accusation of chivalry. “The things we do in formalwear,” he said. But he extended an arm courteously to Aziraphale nonetheless. 

Aziraphale hooked his arm around Crowley’s. “Well,” he said, looking pleased. “Off we go, then.” 

They strolled to the gardens at the front of the museum. The trees were strung with fairy lights. The grounds glimmered with humans in tuxedos and ball gowns, except a pop singer in the distance who wore an avante-garde dress shaped like a stoat. 

“What a shame that nobody else dressed to match the theme,” said Aziraphale. 

“It’s the British Museum, not the Met Gala,” said Crowley. He didn’t miss the middle ages. His aura was adept at incinerating fleas who thought they might enjoy a few drops of demon blood, but had been utterly useless in shielding himself against itchy woolens and heavy armor. 

They dodged the photographers on the lawn and walked up the steps and between the columns into the Great Court of the museum. The white stone space was swarming with caterers, minor members of the Royal Family, and would-be philanthropists. The ceiling arced expansively over the crowd, reflecting the twinkle of stars and streetlights outside. Crowley snagged two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. “Fancy a drink, angel?” 

Aziraphale took the glass, and took a sip. “I remember it used to be quieter here, when they opened the museum. Back when it was still mostly a library,” Aziraphale said wistfully. Crowley watched the angel lick a drop of champagne off his lips. He shivered, and drank deeply from his own flute. “It was you who started bringing in all those patrons, wasn’t it?” 

Crowley shrugged. “The Museum wasn’t going to function on the bequest of Hans Sloane alone. I thought you might have appreciated the budget infusion, being on the board and all.” 

“Well, yes, but -” he gestured at the glittering crowd “- most of these people couldn’t care less about first editions, or archaeological site integrity, let alone the history of Cornwall!” 

“If it’s the eyes on us you’re worried about, I could always summon some football hooligans as a distraction.” 

“No need,” sniffed Aziraphale. “The actual exhibition is at the back. Too far from the bar for the rabble to bother visiting.” 

They strode slowly towards the special exhibitions gallery. 

The ceiling was long and low. Fragments of parchment were displayed in glass cases, conveying scraps of the Arthurian Legend, census records, and shipping manifests, in no particular order. Mannequins dressed in soldiers’ armour queued down the centre of the gallery. Crowley snorted when he saw the leather and chainmail they were wearing. “Angel,” he said, “what were we thinking, wearing plate armor fifteen hundred years ago?” 

Aziraphale turned to look at the mannequins. “Perhaps we were thinking, ‘well, a bit more protection would be nice, I don’t fancy getting skewered through the chest by the opposition’s representative on earth?’” 

“We definitely weren’t thinking _temporally appropriate dress,”_ said Crowley.

“It’s no matter,” said Aziraphale. “I’d like to think we cut splendid figures.”

Crowley disagreed - the armour had been blasted heavy, and besides, softer fabrics better suited the angel. But he kept that to himself. 

Aziraphale nudged Crowley, nodding his head towards the end of the gallery. They followed the faint thread of power to a nondescript display of swords at the back wall. 

“And behold, the sword of Michael, archangel of God, commander of the heavenly legions; which was passed to Arthur, the once and future king; known as Excalibur through all the ages of man,” said Aziraphale grandly. 

“Er - are you sure that’s it, angel? Doesn’t look like much,” said Crowley. The sword known as Excalibur looked like it was made of rust, like all the other swords in the glass case.

“I’m sure,” said Aziraphale. “I was a knight of the table round once. I’d recognize its aura anywhere.” 

“Maybe something shinier could get the job done, more stylishly?” said Crowley hopefully. “They’ve got some updated models in the Renaissance wing.” 

“An ordinary sword would crumble under the strain of supporting a divine flame,” said Aziraphale. “Well, I suppose we had better get on with the retrieval.” 

Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers. The power went out, and took the security systems with it. Behind them, the Great Court of the museum emitted a collective gasp. 

Aziraphale swapped his empty champagne flute and the sword Excalibur with a miracle. He flourished the sword skyward, as if to test the balance. Then, looking satisfied, he offered it to Crowley hilt-first. 

Crowley took the sword, and it burst into flames, vaporizing a millennium of rust and scorching the cuff of Aziraphale’s jacket. “Ah! Shit!” 

The angel lifted his wrist to his lips and blew the flames out. The fire alarms went off anyways. The sprinkler system turned on. “I thought you disabled those!” exclaimed Aziraphale. 

“I forgot they run on batteries,” yelled Crowley. Shrieks of indignation erupted from the Great Court of the museum. 

“Best not stick around here any longer,” said Aziraphale. 

“No shit, angel,” said Crowley. 

A small horde of football hooligans burst into the special exhibitions gallery through the emergency exit, whooping violently. “You’re going home in a fuckin’ ambulance! You’re going home in a fuckin’ ambulance!” 

Aziraphale looked disapprovingly at Crowley. “Really?” 

“They’re covering our escape,” said Crowley, trying and failing to dim the flames on the sword. He held the weapon at arm’s length with both hands, as though it might explode in his face. “Come on, let’s go!” 

“You’re going home in a fuckin’ ambulance! You’re going home in a fuckin’ ambulance!” The hooligans rampaged towards the Great Court. 

“Oh, give that to me before you hurt yourself!” exclaimed Aziraphale. He grabbed the sword from Crowley and doused the flames with a gesture. 

They retreated through the emergency exit. 

When they were clear, Aziraphale turned back to the hooting and screeching emanating from the museum. 

“They’ll be talking about that for ages,” said Aziraphale, bleakly. “Endowments are going to drop through the floor.” 

“They’ll get over it,” said Crowley cheerfully. “Some of them might bellyache over the dry-cleaning bill, and then in a few weeks they’ll all reminisce about what a lovely time they had and how the parties have to be ‘seen to be believed.’ Then they’ll try to get their friends to donate to the museum, and they’ll all disappoint themselves with the uneventful galas over the next decade or so.” 

Aziraphale looked somewhat mollified at the thought of donations to the museum. Crowley snapped his fingers and summoned the Bentley. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.” 

“Well, alright,” said Aziraphale. 

They both climbed into the car. Crowley leaped the Bentley over the hedge to avoid encountering the valet again, bumping Aziraphale’s elbow against the cassette player as they landed. Music filled the night air. Crowley began to drive faster. 

_I'm a shooting star, leaping through the sky_

_Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity_

_I'm a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva_

_I'm gonna go, go, go_

Aziraphale clung onto the handle on the ceiling with one hand, and turned off the cassette player with the other. 

“Killjoy,” sighed Crowley. 

“It’s for your own good,” said the angel. 

But Crowley was not dissuaded from driving the wrong way down the one-way street. 

As they dodged oncoming vehicles, Aziraphale said, “Crowley, you did say that your office didn’t issue you any flaming swords, yes?”

“Couldn’t face the forms in quintuplicate, angel,” replied Crowley.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps it’s best I hold on to this for a while, then.” 

Crowley turned to Aziraphale in mock horror. “You said that we were stealing it for me!”

“We repatriated the sword for you,” corrected Aziraphale. “But I didn’t realize that you were an utter novice at swordplay.” Crowley’s disappointment at being deprived of the promised opportunity to wave a flaming sword around must have shown, because Aziraphale added, “How about I teach you how to use it? It’s not so different from a tire iron. Just need to get the knack of, oh, setting it aflame at will, tucking it away when not in use, that kind of thing. It’s a very intuitive system.” 

“Suppose I don’t have a choice,” grumbled Crowley.

“Excellent. How about we meet at Hampstead Heath tomorrow? There’s a place where I can show you the basics so you don’t turn yourself into a flaming demon kebob when I’m not looking,” suggested Aziraphale. 

“I look forward to it, Angel,” Crowley said. 

They’d arrived at Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

“Well, this is my stop,” said Aziraphale, cheerily. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Crowley. Minus the hooligans and the sprinklers, I suppose.” 

“Anytime, angel,” said Crowley. 

He watched Aziraphale enter the bookshop, and then drove away slowly, watching the shop disappear in the rearview mirror. 

∽⧗∼ 

Humming happily, Aziraphale hung up his cloak. It might come in handy sometime, if he ever had to attend a fancy-dress party. He could miracle another one up for a future occasion, but he was rather pleased with the one that he had worn that night. Crowley seemed to have tolerated it relatively well. 

Next to the cloak he hung up the sword Excalibur. It seemed somewhat pretentious to keep calling it Excalibur, as nobody had referred to it as such with any regularity in over a thousand years. Michael hadn’t bothered to name the sword either, when she was actually using it. It had only been _Excalibur_ because the humans thought giving a weapon a name also gave it more power and gravitas. In truth, the sword was visually and functionally identical to his own sword. That one didn’t have a name. 

To differentiate them mentally, he dubbed the sword-formerly-known-as-Excalibur as “Crowley’s sword.” Aziraphale’s own sword was tucked into a pocket dimension somewhere in the vicinity of where a sword sheath would have hung, if he had one. 

But in the same way that Aziraphale was not really a human, despite being shaped like one, neither were their flaming swords weapons of iron or bronze or steel. The closest analogy would have been like his wings. They looked like the wings of a bird. And like a bird, he needed the wings to fly, and the wings had feathers, and if a feather was plucked, he would feel pain. But they weren’t _made_ of the stuff that a bird’s wings were made of. It was just the _idea_ of a wing, willed into a form and tucked into the ethereal plane most of the time. In the same way, the swords were a very pointy and occasionally blazing extension of the wielder’s will, to be materialized whenever convenient. 

Aziraphale pondered that for a moment. If the swords weren’t really _swords_ , then why did they have a physical form, and why couldn’t he manifest it after he had given it away? He thought it had something to do with how the sword was, in a way, a discrete unit of power, or an artifact that you had to possess yourself before . When he had retrieved his own long-lost sword, it had felt like his hands _remembered_ how to grasp the weapon, how to light it afire, and how to direct those energies in the general direction of their foes. 

Crowley, he noted, didn’t have the benefit of remembering how to use something he had never touched before. He had a few centuries of sporadic martial experience, but all with wholly mortal instruments. 

Aziraphale yawned, but only out of habit. Angels didn’t really need to sleep, the same way they weren’t beholden to the human instincts to eat, drink, or fornicate. Unless they wanted to, he amended. Even Gabriel had developed an appreciation for wearing human clothes, even if he could just swan about in whatever shapeless sack had been out of fashion for five thousand years. So Aziraphale sometimes passed the night hours by reading until dawn, or by drinking, or by accounting for the events of the day in his journals. And sometimes, Aziraphale didn’t feel like doing any of those things, and he just draped himself over the couch in his back room and closed his eyes until morning. 

He headed to the back rooms. A spot of tea might be nice. And then a moment to recount the deeds of the day. 

He put the kettle on the hob in the kitchen and then walked into the back study to open up his journal. 

Aziraphale didn’t write every single day - after a few decades, all the miracles and the blessings and the wedding attendances blurred together in an inconsequential and uninspiring way. He only wrote about things which seemed significant in some way. For example, he liked to record events that might have repercussions a few years down the line, though he was rather off the mark with some of them. Pointed, carefully composed letters to the Prime Minister Grenville about reconsidering a tax bill had gone ignored, resulting in the bloody secession of a baker’s dozen of colonies. Whereas when he’d helpfully recommended his favourite Austrian sandwich shop to a haggard-looking fellow, the man shot the Archduke halfway through lunch and started World War I. 

So he just stuck to recording happy memories, everyday delights, and wine tasting notes. 

_Today, Crowley and I retrieved the sword known as Excalibur from the British Museum,_ he began. 

He heard the door of his bookshop rattle. 

“The shop is closed,” he called distractedly. _Where was I? Ah yes._ He continued writing. _I’m due to teach him how to use it properly tomorrow afternoon, in Hampstead Heath._

Another rattle in the bookshop. Aziraphale closed his eyes and _felt_ a demonic aura seep in from under the door. It wasn’t Crowley’s aura - Crowley’s aura tasted like red wine and smoked duck breast on a French riviera, with the scent of sun-dried hay wafting on the breeze. This one rather smelled like a freshly flattened raccoon baking on the M25. Aziraphale drew his sword. He debated lighting it, because he was in a _bookshop_ , for heaven’s sake. Caution won out, and he brought the blade aflame - but not before setting down hasty wards to protect the interior of his bookshop against fire damage. He wasn’t sure the Antichrist would be willing to restore the shop twice in the span of a week. 

Then his heart dropped when he saw that the demon he was facing definitely did not have any compunctions about lighting up a sword indoors. Even worse, he realized, was that he had left Crowley’s sword on the wall, and that the demon hadn’t had any caveats about reappropriating it either. 

They circled each other in the centre of the bookshop. “I don’t know why you’re here,” said Aziraphale, trying to summon courage into his voice, “but there’s nothing for you here, and it’s best that you leave _right now._ ” 

The demon responded, with a hoarse voice, like the sound of a corpse being dragged through a gravel pit. “That’s where you’re mistaken, _angel_.” It leapt forwards and slashed the sword expertly at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale stumbled backwards, parrying the slash just in time to avoid losing the buttons on his waistcoat. He hadn’t had long enough with his old sword to remember the finer points of fighting -

The demon followed up with a trained riposte. Aziraphale couldn’t move his sword quickly enough to parry the blow, so he dodged backwards, towards his study. He began to pull threads of power away from the wards on his bookshop to shield himself, but they began to tangle - 

Another flash of the blade, which he blocked hastily. He realized that this demon had probably been quite looking forward to Armageddon, and was redirecting undoubtedly centuries of martial training onto Aziraphale - not to mention its frustration when Armageddon had been cancelled. Aziraphale had no chance at all in a fair fight. _Maybe I could turn the wine to water and bless it,_ he thought in a panic. He tried a lunge to throw the demon off-balance and make a run for the back room, but the demon stepped lazily to the side. Aziraphale’s lunge hit empty air and he overbalanced, right into the threadbare carpet. He dropped the sword to break his fall, and the sword went out. 

The demon picked up Aziraphale’s dropped sword and pointed both blades at the angel’s throat. By the glare of the flaming sword, he could make out a pair of merciless black eyes and the crawl of maggots underneath the demon hood. “A poor show, angel,” it rasped, amusement in its voice. 

“What do you want?” Aziraphale asked, breathless with fear. _If I can stall him long enough,_ _I can still collapse the wards and -_

“Justice,” said the demon. 

And before Aziraphale could figure out what the demon meant, it brought the pommel of the sword down on Aziraphale’s head, and everything went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SilchasRuin for the sandwich suggestion!


	3. Chapter Two: A Date at Hampstead Heath

Aziraphale woke up in a room of square-cut sandstone, lit only by the green runes of a portal. Spots swam across his vision as he struggled to sit up. He could make out some Egyptian hieroglyphs on the walls, and a few scattered stone blocks on the ground, but the room was empty. _An old tomb, looted long ago_ , he realized. A figure - the demon that had ambushed him in the bookshop - stalked through the shadows, smelling of gasoline and roadkill. It tossed the empty petrol can away into a corner of the tomb. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” The demon knelt in the ring in front of him. “Not too banged up, are you?” He snapped his fingers and a ring of hellfire roared to life around Aziraphale. “I could fix that for you.” 

Aziraphale coughed. Hellfire burned smokelessly but he could feel it suffocating his aura nonetheless. He instinctively manifested his wings and wrapped them around himself protectively. “Where are we?” 

“Somewhere where nobody will find you,” said the demon, straightening up and walking into the cursed flames. The fire illuminated a shock of uneven blonde hair on the demon’s head, and the grubby trench coat hanging loosely from his shoulders. “Particularly not your pathetic excuse for a demon.” 

He roughly took the angel’s right hand. Aziraphale tried to pull away, but he was weakened by the ring of hellfire that surrounded him. “No, you shan’t get away this time,” the demon continued, bending Aziraphale’s fingers backward painfully in response to the angel’s struggles. He pushed a heavy ring onto Aziraphale’s index finger. 

The ring weighed heavily on him. He felt - muffled, somehow, like he was speaking underwater. Aziraphale tried to reach out with his powers but he couldn’t. It was blocked, as if he was a dog wearing a muzzle, or if he were pressing up against the walls of an _oubliette_ in the Bastille. Aziraphale tried to pull the ring off but it did not budge. 

“No point in doing that, angel,” said the figure. “That’s the Seal of Solomon.” 

“It binds demons,” Aziraphale recalled, studying the bronze signet ring. The hexagram on the ring’s face was blackened with age, but power and portent clung to it as heavily as a fog in a cemetery. “I thought that was lost when the United Kingdom of Israel fell.”

“Was lost, and then recovered for Kingdom of Hell - by Crawley, actually - a few thousand years ago” said the figure, its lips twisting into an ironic smile. “And it works fine on angels too. You lot, waltzing around and lording it over us... turns out you wank-wings ain’t so different after all.” 

That turn of phrase stirred a memory in Aziraphale. “I remember you,” he said. “From my - Crowley’s - trial.” 

“No point pretending anymore, _angel_. I know it was you splashing around in that bathtub,” Hastur spat. 

“How?” 

“I was there in Berkeley Square,” said Hastur. “When you swapped places? I _saw_.”

“Do they all know?” asked Aziraphale. _I have to get to Crowley. Our cover’s blown._

Hastur scowled again. “The Lords of Hell wouldn’t raise a finger to bring justice for Ligur, those spineless shitsacks.” Hastur smiled a bit, in an afterthought. “I didn’t need ‘em anyways. No. No point. This will go better with one. Too many cooks ruin the stew, as it were.” He trailed his fingers idly through the tongues of hellfire. “And this way, I can give your justice... a personal touch.” 

“Why not just kill me now?” said Aziraphale, scanning the tomb for a way out. The hellfire rose all the way up to the ceiling. 

“Ah, it’s not you I’m after,” said Hastur. “It’s your lover I want _._ ” 

“He’s not my-” 

“Might as well be,” snarled Hastur. “The way you two _look_ at each other when you think the other isn’t paying attention. Disgusting.” 

Aziraphale gaped at the demon. 

“But that hardly matters,” continued Hastur. “Your _friend_ Crowley murdered Ligur. Worse than murdered - _destroyed him_ with holy water.”

“Then why do you need me?” asked Aziraphale weakly, from the ground. 

Hastur paced through the ring of hellfire that surrounded Aziraphale. “Ligur and me, we Fell at the same time. We were promoted together. Watched each other’s backs. Centuries and centuries, we tempted souls together. He was an absolute artist of damnation. And I _watched_ him be unmade. 

“We’re not human. Our souls aren’t immortal. There is no _after_ for the likes of us after something like that. 

“Do you know what that’s like, _angel_?” Aziraphale winced at that. Do you know what it’s like to lose someone to oblivion, and know you’ll never see them again? 

“So, I’m gonna show you what that’s like.” 

“Why not show Crowley?” said Aziraphale. 

“I thought about that,” said Hastur mildly. “I really did. Debated the pros and the cons of it all. How to punish you, how to punish Crowley... Ah, so many good ideas, and just the two of you! Had to flip a coin to figure out who got what.” His face darkened. “So, I’ve got something else in mind for Crowley,” said Hastur darkly. “Something very special, for a very special demon. He’ll wish he were unmade before I’m finished with him.

“And to do that, I need _this_ ,” said Hastur. He stepped into the circle and pulled a primary flight feather out of the wing that Aziraphale was using to shield himself from the hellfire. Aziraphale’s knees buckled and his vision swam as pain shot through his wing. He tried to knock Hastur away, but he kicked the angel in the gut and Aziraphale collapsed onto the ground, perilously close to the burning ring. 

“Crowley might be _well acquainted_ enough with you to assume an angelic form, but it’s a bit harder for a proper demon.” Hastur paused. “A bit harder, but not impossible. All I need is a bit of who I’m transforming into.” 

Hastur traced a sigil into the dust on the tomb’s floor. “ _Vultus meus speculum odii ardentis sit,_ _”_ he chanted. He slashed his palm with a small knife, and pressed Aziraphale’s feather against the wound. The feather sank into his hand. Hastur’s flesh began bubbling at the point of contact and spread up his arm. He howled as the flesh on his face began to melt. 

_Let him die,_ thought Aziraphale. He hoped against hope that the ritual had gone wrong. But the flesh of Hastur’s face twisted and reshaped itself into Aziraphale’s own. His grimy rags rewove themselves into a cream-coloured morning suit. Aziraphale looked into Hastur’s eyes and saw his own blue ones glinting back. Even their auras felt the same, _tasted_ the same.

“Don’t worry, I’ll come for the rest of you later,” said Hastur out of his new mouth. “But first-” He tossed an ornate, silver-backed hand mirror at Aziraphale. The surface rippled like water in an inky lake, resolving into a view of a familiar-looking room full of plants in a familiar-looking flat. Crowley stepped into the mirror’s frame with a watering can and gestured threateningly at a maidenhair fern. “ _And what have we got here? Crisping up, are you? Humidity not up to your standards, your majesty? Perhaps the guillotine will be more to your liking!”_

_I have to buy time,_ he thought. _I have to make sure he doesn’t get to Crowley._ “Why are you telling me all this?” croaked Aziraphale.

Hastur sighed. “It’d be a shame to let torment this delicious go unappreciated. And it’s not as you have anybody to tell this to, _angel,_ ” he said. “All will become apparent in due time.” He sniffed the air. “My, my, it’s getting late.” 

“You can’t -” Aziraphale began, weakly. 

“Questions later,” said Hastur, with a smirk. “I have an appointment this afternoon at Hampstead Heath.”

Aziraphale felt himself grow cold. “You’ll never fool him,” he said. 

Hastur reached into a pocket and pulled out a familiar-looking journal. “Will I?” he asked, rhetorically. “I’ve got a rather _fascinating_ account of the last six millennia back at the bookshop.

“Not to mention, I am a Duke of Hell,” Hastur said. “I’ve damned a million mortals wearing a million faces. I’ve tempted kings and queens and popes. And none of them ever thought anything was amiss.” He bent down to Aziraphale’s level. “Why would they? I only ever give them what they truly want.” 

Hastur stood up and walked through the portal. The green lights from the portal runes winked out, and the cavern was left with only the light of the hellfire. 

And through the mirror, Aziraphale heard the doorbell of Crowley’s flat ring. 

∽⧖∼ 

“Crowley, are you in there?” he heard Aziraphale call from the door. The doorbell rang again. 

“Merely a stay of execution,” Crowley hissed at the fern. He set the plant mister down on a side table, walked down the hall, and opened the door. Aziraphale stood at the threshold, with a picnic basket tucked under his left arm. 

“Fancy lunch at Hampstead Heath?” Aziraphale asked, brightly. He gestured at the basket. “I’ve got a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a bit of cheese and chutney from the fromagerie at Jermyn Street, and some tea-sandwiches from the Ritz to convince you.” 

“I thought you were going to teach me how to wield the sword,” Crowley said. 

“You can’t do swordwork on an empty stomach,” said Aziraphale. 

“Can’t we? We wouldn’t even have to manifest stomachs if you didn’t love eating so much,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale smiled. “But we do. Can’t I tempt you with a bit of Roquefort?” 

“Are you tempting me, or just yourself?” asked Crowley, somewhat skeptically. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Alright,” Crowley said, deflating. “But you aren’t playing fair. Blue cheeses are my one great weakness.”

Aziraphale proffered his free arm to Crowley. After a moment of hesitation, he took Aziraphale’s arm, and they walked out into the sunshine together. 

The Bentley was parked on the street. He opened the door for Aziraphale, who climbed in with a smile. Crowley got in the car himself. 

“Where to, angel?” asked Crowley. 

“North,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll give you directions.” 

Aziraphale’s directions were somewhat more concise than usual, without any shenanigans like “a right turn here, my dear, just past the pub with the rooster on the sign, or was it the fox?” followed by “you’ve missed the turn, Crowley,” a screeching three-point turn without signalling, and the angel hanging on for dear life from the oh-shit handle on the Bentley’s ceiling. Crowley glanced at Aziraphale. The angel was gazing out of the window, with a serene look on his face, as the wind blew his hair into a fluffy blonde halo around his face. 

An airhorn blared, jolting him out of his reverie, and he swerved around an oncoming lorry. Crowley pulled his attention back to the road, as Beethoven’s “Play the Game” sounded from the Blaupunkt cassette player, featuring vocals by Freddie Mercury. 

_Open up your mind and let me step inside_

_Rest your weary head and let your heart decide_

_It's so easy when you know the rules_

_It's so easy all you have to do_

_Is fall in love_

_Play the game_

Aziraphale’s promised land was lovely and redolent with the smell of fresh-mown grass. They set up the picnic paraphanalia on a tall hill overlooking a bustling pond. In the winter, the hill was undoubtedly popular for tobogganers. In the summer, schoolchildren dared each other to ride their bicycles down the hill at full speed. Crowley and Aziraphale ate slowly from the basket that the angel had brought. Five children had wiped out at the bottom of the hill by the time they finished their late lunch. 

“Nice change of scenery,” said Crowley, sprawled out on a red-checked blanket, under a maple tree. “Usually it’s St. James’ Park. Hiding between the diplomats and such.”

“Well, I figured we had nothing to worry about after our last visit to head office,” said Aziraphale, inspecting a grape from the picnic basket. Crowley watched as he slid it into his mouth. “Also, there’s no place in St. James’ Park to practice swordfighting.” 

“And there is in Hampstead Heath?” scoffed Crowley. 

“There wasn’t before, but I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a place where we won’t be disturbed. I am not an amateur.” replied Aziraphale, with a degree of pride. “Wine, my dear?” 

Crowley materialized two glasses out of the air. Aziraphale popped the cork on the bottle and filled them. 

“Suppose we shouldn’t have too much,” said Crowley. “Wouldn’t want to get plastered and turn myself into a - what was it you called it? - a flaming demon kebob.”

Aziraphale laughed warmly. “Have you ever been to one of those _churrascarias_ , where they cook the meat on swords?” he asked. 

“Nah,” said Crowley. “Never spent much time in South America, myself.”

“I thought a snake such as yourself might feel right at home in the jungle,” said Aziraphale. 

“You’d think so, but no. Humidity makes my scales itch,” said Crowley. “Britain is fine. I can’t imagine a better way to spend an afternoon than thrashing around with a flaming sword while you laugh at me.” 

Aziraphale looked amused and thoughtful. “Oh? I thought you had a better imagination than that.” 

Crowley was rather proud of his imagination, but there were times where it didn’t do to get ahead of oneself. Imagination could be a source of great comfort and great misery alike. He was sure that inmates in for-profit prisons thought longingly about eating great steaks with buttery mashed potatoes, but that would only lead to disappointment when a greasy little pile of rice and beans hit the mealtray. Unless you were pregnant, in which you would get a greasy little pile of rice and beans with a prenatal vitamin on the side. 

Or right now, for instance. He was sitting on a picnic blanket, drinking wine with Aziraphale, watching the ducks harass schoolchildren for bread. One of the ducks hissed, and the children scarpered. He could, of course, imagine that Aziraphale might be sitting a bit closer, or any manner of impossible things, but it would spoil the moment. So he didn’t. 

His heart skipped a beat when he realized that Aziraphale was, indeed, sitting a bit closer to him than a few moments ago. “Are there ants on your side, or something?” he asked. 

“No,” said the angel. “You worry too much, Crowley.” And Aziraphale laid a hand over his own. 

Crowley concentrated very hard on not moving, lest he jostle Aziraphale from his current position. He was also concentrating very hard on committing the moment to memory. 

Then Aziraphale lifted his other hand to Crowley’s cheek and kissed him decisively. 

Crowley felt his insides lurch, and the world spun around him. 

Aziraphale pulled away after a long moment. 

“Crowley?” said Aziraphale, tentatively. Crowley couldn’t think of anything to say. Aziraphale continued, “I’m sorry if I misjudged -” 

“No, you haven’t - I just didn’t think -” said Crowley, finding his voice in bits and pieces. “You just caught me unprepared.” Then he carefully moved his own hand to the angel’s elbow and leaned in to kiss him again. This time, it felt even better, now that Crowley knew he wasn’t imagining things, and that he had the presence of mind to kiss Aziraphale properly. His aura smelled like lavender and beeswax candles. This close, Crowley thought he could also smell something a bit darker - the indolence of jasmine flowers, perhaps. Crowley wasn’t sure if he had ever been close enough to smell that before. 

Aziraphale pulled away again and straightened out his jacket. “I should show you the techniques with the swords that I promised, while the sun is still up,” he said. 

“Alright, angel,” said Crowley. 

They packed up the picnic basket together. Crowley wanted to ask Aziraphale something else, but he was not quite sure how that would go over, so he was not particularly eager to bring it up. 

Aziraphale led Crowley into the woods. 

“Not going to teach me how to use the sword here, are you?” Crowley asked. “Might set the whole forest on fire.” 

“No, I’m looking for - something else -” Aziraphale said. “Here -” 

They had arrived near an old stone arch, set in the middle of a crumbling stone wall in the forest. The area was once been farmland, but the forest had greedily reclaimed it in the last century. Aziraphale ran his fingers over the face of the arch. It lit up in green runes, and a portal opened into somewhere dark and torchlit. Crowley could not make out what was beyond. 

“Any hints for where we’re going?” asked Crowley. 

“It’s a portal to an old cave,” explained Aziraphale patiently. “Romans soldiers used to use it as an encampment. My bookshop and your flat are too small and flammable, but the Y or something like that is right out as well. I’d have liked a whole Roman arena, of course, but there aren’t many of those around in this country.” He held out his hand to Crowley. “Shall we?” 

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand. 

They walked through the portal together, emerging in what was indeed an extremely dark cave, lit by torches. The portal closed behind them. 

Aziraphale plucked the sunglasses from Crowley’s face. “There’s no point in wearing those indoors, Crowley.” Then, he gently pushed Crowley against the wall of the cave. 

“I’ve been wondering - how did you keep the torches alight for so long?” asked Crowley, trying to maintain his composure with his back against the wall as Aziraphale leaned dangerously close. 

“A minor miracle,” the angel said, before taking Crowley’s hands in his own, and tilting his face up to Crowley’s and kissing him like his life depended on it. Crowley thought of making a jibe about swords but when Aziraphale’s lips parted slightly and he found himself tasting the angel’s mouth, all rational thoughts absconded themselves abruptly. 

Then, a sudden click of a lock, and Crowley felt a cold weight on his wrists. Aziraphale pulled away. Crowley looked down and saw that his hands were in silver manacles. The manacles were covered in glyphs. He recognized the runes for Binding, Weakening, and Nullification among them. 

The manacles were attached to a chain, which were mounted to a point high above him on the wall. 

Crowley’s insides twisted. “Angel, what’s going on?” he asked, already dreading the answer. 

Aziraphale gestured at the chain, which pulled itself taut, forcing Crowley’s arms upwards until he was almost standing on his toes. Crowley tried to shift into his serpent form but he could not. _The runes on the manacles -_

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. He stepped backwards, leaving Crowley straining against his chain on the cave wall. 

Crowley’s breath quickened. For the third time today, and the second time in the span of a minute, he felt blindsided by the turn of events. “Angel - Aziraphale - what is this?” 

There were tears in Aziraphale’s eyes. “Head office made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” said Aziraphale. “I couldn’t spend the rest of eternity on the run with you.”

The angel unsheathed both swords and brought them aflame. Crowley recognized one as the one that they had stolen the night before. Aziraphale gave them an experimental flourish, and seeing the look on Crowley’s face, smiled crookedly. “Don’t worry, my dear boy. These aren’t for you.” He sheathed his own sword, and rested Excalibur against the wall near the cave portal. 

“You agreed they might leave us alone -” said Crowley. 

“And they might have, for a while,” said Aziraphale, gently. “ Maybe for a few weeks. A few years. Decades. But not forever. Two loose ends running around? How long would they have let that last?” He spread his arms. “We are living proof that the will of Heaven and Hell can be defied. Our existence foments unrest and disorder. They would have hunted us down eventually.” Aziraphale stepped closer, close enough that Crowley could see a trace of redness in his eyes, and half-dried tears on his cheeks. “And when they did, two flaming swords would have been no match compared to their armies.”

“Not if we ran to Alpha Centauri,” said Crowley, desperately. “Another galaxy. It’s a big universe out there.” 

“The Lord sees all,” said Aziraphale, “and we will all receive our due justice before the end.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SilchasRuin for providing the Latin, and to GraphiteGirl for providing a description of prison food.


	4. Chapter Three: A Heart of Darkness

As far as Crowley could tell, the cave was sealed. There was no sunlight and barely any airflow in the cavern. The torches went out whenever Aziraphale left, and only blazed forth again when the angel returned at unpredictable intervals, bringing torment with him each time. Crowley’s chest was pitted with healing wounds. The angel always took care to close up the worst of his injuries, so as not to risk discorporating Crowley entirely, before leaving him in the dark again.

He took those moments of reprieve to try and escape his subterranean prison. 

This time, he was running through a laundry list of ways to escape, in different combinations.

Miracling a lockpick out of thin air was out, but what about miracling a lockpick out of a hair? The part of his mind where he might force a whim into reality felt as if it had been walled off. Perhaps the wall had a weak spot. He bent his wrist around the manacles awkwardly and plucked a hair out of his head. Then he grasped it between two fingers and willed it to become stiff and metallic, until he was sweating from the effort. The hair remained resolutely soft and useless _._ He let it flutter out of his hands and moved on to the next idea. 

His serpent form was blocked, but what if he tried to shapeshift while his hands were completely relaxed? He stood on the very tips of his toes to try and relieve the pressure in his wrists while trying to draw his limbs into his torso. Relieving the physical pressure in his wrists did nothing to relieve the pressure on his powers and everything to inflict excruciating pain on his toes. He remained very aware of how his limbs were still stubbornly _present_. 

“Fucking fuck all this,” he screamed at the darkness. He thrashed wildly, trying to simultaneously slide his hand out of manacles, rip the chain out of the wall, and climb up the wall to gnaw his arm off. _I can always grow it back later._

An unknown measure of time later, he’d exhausted himself without any noticeable improvement to his situation. 

_Haven’t tried the wings yet. Maybe I can use those to increase my leverage and rip the chain out of the wall._

He began the process of manifesting his wings, and hit a familiar mental wall. But the wall seemed shorter, less insurmountable than before. Crowley _stretched_ , and his wings popped into existence. He fanned them out to their full extent, and thanked his lucky stars for the oversight in the runes binding his powers. 

Then he began straining against the wall anew, pulling himself up with his arms, and pushing at the wall with his feet and his wings, until it felt his wrists might pop - 

The torches lit up again. He dropped himself back into a resting position, and tried to fold up his wings back up, but they stayed by his side, stubbornly material. “Shit, shit, shit -” 

Then portal flared green, and then Aziraphale stepped through. This time, the angel had brought a pair of silver stakes with him. 

“What are those for? Vampires?” he asked, sarcastically. 

Aziraphale smiled slightly at that. “I appreciate the gallows humour, my dear boy, but these -” he hefted the stakes, as if to test the weight, “- are for you.” 

Crowley realized, suddenly, where Aziraphale intended to drive the two stakes. “No,” he whispered. “No, please, Aziraphale, don’t -” 

“If I am to be brought back into the fold after my transgressions,” said the angel mournfully, “I need to repent for my sins. And I have to look like I really mean it.” 

“There’s got to be another way! You could just, oh, kill me off for good, bring an audience of archangels for good measure. Surely that’d be enough to prove that you _mean it,_ ” cried Crowley. 

Aziraphale sighed heavily. “That’s the last step,” he said. “The archangels don’t find a particularly pressing need to witness the intermediary ones, but - I’ve been instructed, nonetheless.” 

“Then why do any of this at all, if they’re not watching?” Crowley asked hopelessly. 

“They may not be watching, but God is,” said Aziraphale. 

“He hasn’t been heard from in centuries!” protested Crowley, straining against the wall.

“Just because you don’t hear Him doesn’t mean He’s not listening,” said Aziraphale. “Anyways, we’ve been - carrying on for millennia. A few days of retribution is not so small a price to pay.” 

“A price to pay for what?” Crowley spat. “For _carrying on?_ For saving the world we _love_?” 

Aziraphale put his face very close to Crowley’s. “Don’t think this doesn’t hurt me too,” he said, quietly. “Don’t you dare think that I would do this if I had any other choice.” 

“There is _always_ a choice!” begged Crowley. “We’ve been making choices for years. We made the choice to have the arrangement, we made choices to prevent Armageddon - what makes you think that _now_ of all times is when we’ve run out of choices to make? What changed?” 

Aziraphale grew stony-faced. “We were flying under the radar before, Crowley. But we drew too much attention in the run up to the Armageddon fiasco. They know who we are, and what we’ve done. If you think that we could have carried on like we did before Armageddon, you are sorely mistaken.” 

The angel spread his own wings and rose to the level of Crowley’s left wing. Crowley thrashed and tried to fold his wings closed, but Aziraphale forcibly extended his wing to its full extent. Then he raised one of the silver stakes and pushed it in slowly, between his metacarpal bones. Crowley screamed. He couldn’t help it. Aziraphale didn’t relent. 

Once he was finished, he moved onto the right wing. “Just one more, my dear,” he said, almost kindly, and pushed the second stake in. Crowley screamed again, and sagged against the wall, feeling the flesh and bones of his wings pull around the stakes. His vision spun and darkened again, until all he could see was Aziraphale’s face. He closed his eyes. 

When the freshness of the pain had passed somewhat, he opened his eyes again. Aziraphale, damn him, was still there, watching him with a studious eye. _Like a butterfly pinned to a board_ , he thought. _Or - a certain carpenter from Galilee. Dying to redeem the sins of another._ He tensed slightly at that irony, sending fresh pains blazing through his wings. _I don’t think the theology stretches that far._ He tried to stand taller, on his toes, but that barely relieved the pressure at his wingtips. He tried to pull his wings free of the stakes, but he felt his strength sapped through the manacles. _Binding, Weakening, Nullification_ , he recalled. 

“Aziraphale -” he said, weakly. The angel was a blur through his tears at this point, seeming to pulse in his vision, in time with Crowley’s own heartbeat. 

“Don’t be afraid,” whispered Aziraphale. “I know that you were always a bit of a coward - with all that running from your duties, running from the Apocalypse, running from Beezelbub - but you don’t have anything to be afraid of now.

“I need to step out for a moment and get in touch with head office. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.” He stepped closer to Crowley and kissed him. Crowley tasted salt on their lips, briefly. Despite everything, he felt himself trying to lean closer to Aziraphale, to taste his grief and say what his words could not, before Aziraphale pulled back. 

“Aziraphale -” said Crowley, again. 

“I’ll be back,” repeated Aziraphale. “And it will all be over soon.” He turned his back on Crowley and walked across the cavern and through the portal.

And Crowley was plunged into darkness again. 

∽⧗∼

In the mirror, Aziraphale watched Crowley’s face disappear into shadow. 

He judged that it had been about three days since he awoke in the tomb, but he could not be sure. The Seal of Solomon cut him off from most of his powers, and the tomb’s walls cut him off from the outside world.

The hellfire burned incessantly - he could not risk destruction by escaping that way. He thought he heard the gentle gurgling of a river above him, but he could not use that water to douse the hellfire without his full powers. He could not open a portal on the floor of the tomb. No combination of sigils would remove the Seal of Solomon, even if the sigils were drawn in blood. He’d spent a day scraping and prying at the stone tiles underneath him, only to discover bedrock below. 

In the end, there was only one way out he hadn’t tried yet. He’d hoped to not have to attempt it, for fear of sapping the strength he would surely need to face Hastur, but he had no other choice. And now, with Hastur’s promise that it would _all be over soon_ , he was also out of time. 

He took his scarf off and wrapped the mirror in it. Then he smashed the whole bundle into the ground.

Gingerly unwrapping the scarf, he picked up the largest shard and shook the other slivers out of the fabric. _No time to requisition another corporation_. He found a building block about knee height. _If you make me an altar of stone, you shall not build it of hewn stones, for if you wield your tool on it you profane it. Exodus_ , Aziraphale thought, swallowing a nervous laugh. He knelt at the block, and laid his right hand on its surface. _Thank Heavens he used scrying-glass. Sharper. Stronger._

He forced himself to keep his eyes open - he couldn’t afford to miss. Teeth clenched, he summoned up the little power he had that wasn’t blocked by the Seal of Solomon to fortify himself, and drew the shard of glass across his wrist. 

The pain was instantaneous and all-consuming, and so was the surge of power the followed. Aziraphale gasped and his vision narrowed. _No time to regenerate._ He used his left hand to heat the shard of glass, and then pressed it against the stump of his right wrist. He screamed then, but there was nobody to hear him. Blood pounded in his head and he instinctively curled inwards, trying to shield his arm from further pain. 

_No time,_ a small voice in his head reminded him. He inhaled a shuddering breath, trying to clear his head and collect himself. He fashioned his scarf into a sling for his right arm. _Can’t regenerate it now - it’ll take too much time and power._

 _Right, now to get out._ The ring of hellfire burned around him, up to the ceiling of the chamber. But he could hear the trickle of water, and thought he imagined a wisp of wind from somewhere he could not see. _The surface must be close._ He didn’t have his flaming sword - Hastur did. So he pushed power into the mirror shard until it had lengthened, and resembled a silver stake. He shielded himself and imbued the stake with all the power he could spare.

Above him, a bead of water collected on the ceiling of the tomb. 

Aziraphale bent his knees and sprang upwards, pushing down with his wings to propel himself higher, with the mirror shard in his left hand. When he was within reach of the ceiling, he drew his arm back and slammed the shard into the dampest-looking spot in the ceiling. 

Miraculously, the shard didn’t shatter, but sank into the ceiling of the tomb and stayed there, wedged between the rocks. Aziraphale landed on his feet and looked upwards. A small trickle of water began to flow from the spot where he had struck the ceiling. He reached into his power and pushed it into the breach he had opened. Beyond, he felt a vast expanse of cool, fresh water. 

He shoved another tendril of power into the breach and ripped open the ceiling of the tomb. 

Water blasted into the tomb from above. Aziraphale made a gesture with his left arm and blessed the water as it crashed down upon him. Steam exploded where the holy water hit the hellfire. 

The deluge knocked him off his feet and swept him into the corner of the tomb. He groped blindly for a handhold and pulled himself up against the wall. He’d neutralized the hellfire, but the tomb was filling rapidly. 

Then the ceiling shuddered, and stones began to fall around him. Aziraphale raised his wings to protect his head and looked upwards. The water was coming down more quickly. 

He shielded himself again and half-swum, half-walked as close as he could to where the water was rushing through. 

Raising a shield with the last scraps of his power, he launched himself towards the opening in the ceiling. Debris tumbled out as he tried to force himself out, battering his wings. There was hardly any light left since the hellfire had gone out. He could not tell if he was making progress. It felt like he was flying against the wind in a hurricane. 

He tore through the water’s surface at last, and gasped. 

Fresh air. 

It was nighttime. He dropped his shields and felt the cool night air on his face. As far as he could tell from the stars, he was in the southern hemisphere. 

He stretched his wings and beat them, out of the water. Droplets flew off his feathers as he rose higher and higher. A great river stretched out before him, winding its way through a boundless desert crisscrossed with dusty roads. He could make out the old Temples of Isis and Hathor on an island in the distance. _Egypt._

_Ten hours away from Hampstead Heath, as the raven flies._

He steeled himself for the long journey ahead, and flew northward with all the strength he could muster. 

∽⧖∼ 

Crowley was in the dark, straining his against the stakes pinning him to the wall until he was sure he wept tears of blood. He pulled himself up by the chain at his wrists, trying to lift himself up and relieve the weight on his wings, so he could sweep them forward out of the stakes. They were tapered, like long nails, but they looked thin enough that Crowley might be able to slide his wings right off them. But, hanging with his back to the wall, he couldn’t reduce the pressure on his wings enough to dislodge the stakes or tear his flesh from the pins. 

The portal runes flared to life again, and Crowley dropped himself back down to his feet. The torches blazed anew to the sound of soft leather oxfords on the stone floor. 

Aziraphale walked towards him, and Crowley’s heart filled with dread. 

“My dear?” whispered Aziraphale, touching Crowley’s cheek. 

“Back already, are you?” said Crowley, harshly. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t come back?” asked Aziraphale, looking hurt.

“I was hoping,” he said, “that you’d let me rot in peace. I’m sure your _people_ would be in favour of a few centuries of quiet repentance.” 

“You’re a demon, Crowley. Our natures are immutable, and only death can pay for your sins,” replied the angel. 

“So it’s death now, is it?” goaded Crowley. “And there I thought it was about your redemption, getting recalled to Heaven, and getting back into Gabriel’s good graces, if not his trousers. It’s so nice to know that you care about my immortal - oops - my _mortal_ soul after all.” 

Aziraphale scowled. “Of course it’s about you, Crowley. You’ve been running around unchecked for six thousand years.” 

“Well, go on and remind me of all my other mistakes,” said Crowley, flippantly. He began counting off on his fingers, though the effect was lessened somewhat by the awkward position of his arms. “Slacking on the job, delegation without official authorization, maybe a bit of fraternization with a certain traitorous angel.” The last one came out in a long hiss. 

Aziraphale flourished a small dagger. “Keep going,” he said, and drove the blade into Crowley’s shoulder. 

Crowley shrieked and tried to shift himself, to redistribute the pressure on his arms and wings. “I don’t know,” he panted. “Averting the Apocalypse? I think we’ve covered it already. Filing false reports? Bribery? Everybody in Hell does that!”

“Keep going,” Aziraphale repeated, and stabbed the dagger into the muscle of Crowley’s left wing. 

“I don’t know,” screamed Crowley. “Was it saving your fucking life? Did you want me to regret that?”

Aziraphale turned, so that he was face-to-face with Crowley. “I want you to regret killing Ligur,” he said, softly. 

“Who gives a _fuck_ about Ligur?” snarled Crowley, despite the pain. 

Aziraphale stepped back, disappointment in his eyes. Crowley cried out again, as the angel dragged the tip of his knife down the centre of Crowley’s chest, opening up a long, shallow gash. Crowley felt his chest was going to split with every breath. 

“Come on and finish me off, then” wheezed Crowley. “Fucking get on with it, angel!” 

Paradoxically, Aziraphale stepped backwards and twirled the dagger around his fingers. “You should thank me for this,” said the angel. “It would have been so much worse if Hastur or one of the other Dukes had found you first.” Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hair and forced him to meet his eyes. “ _Do you understand?_ It’s better this way.” 

Something clicked inside Crowley, despite the haze of pain. _No. It’s exactly the same._

His mind churned with the revelation. _What has he done with Aziraphale?_

But before he could say anything more, a green light flared on the other end of the cave, and Aziraphale - the real Aziraphale this time, he hoped - burst through the portal. Before the imposter - Hastur - could react, he picked up Crowley's sword from where Hastur had abandoned it earlier. Excalibur burst into flames at Aziraphale’s touch. 

“So good of you to join us,” Hastur growled. “I’ll let you live long enough to watch _him_ go.” He let go of Crowley’s hair, drew his own sword - _Aziraphale’s sword_ \- and launched himself at the angel. 

The two Aziraphales - Aziraphale and Hastur, he corrected himself - fought, flaming sword to flaming sword. Crowley could not tell one from the other - they were nearly equally matched. Aziraphale must have kept up his practice since the last Crusades, or perhaps the angel’s corporations just had excellent muscle memory. As for Hastur - he must have trained really aggressively for the end of the world. 

One of the Aziraphales had no right hand, just a closed, burned stump of a wrist. _That one must be the real Aziraphale,_ he thought. But at that moment, the angel knocked Hastur’s blade aside and swung his sword downwards. Hastur instinctively held up his own arm to block the blow. The sword sliced Hastur’s hand off, cauterizing the wound on the way through. But that parry was enough for Hastur to escape the brunt of the blow. 

_So the missing hand - that was no helping hand at all_ , he thought deliriously. _I need to get out._ Crowley strained against the silver manacles again, trying to slip through. 

One of the angels saw his struggle. He disengaged his foe by kicking him backwards, and sprang towards Crowley. Crowley blanched in horror as he saw the flaming blade and the single-minded look on the angel’s face. 

The angel raised his sword over his head and slashed through the chains holding his wrists overhead. Crowley screamed in pain - his wrists were no longer supporting any of his weight. He felt the flesh at his wingtips tear and thought he might black out again. 

Hastur caught up with Aziraphale. The angel dropped and rolled sideways away from Hastur’s oncoming blow. 

Crowley gritted his teeth and _wrenched_ his wings away from the pins holding him down. He felt flesh tear and a wetness drip down his feathers as he folded them away. _Didn’t need wings here anyways,_ he thought. _Ceiling’s too low._

Aziraphale parried Hastur’s next blow from the ground, but Hastur knocked Aziraphale’s sword away. It skittered across the cave floor towards Crowley, its flame fading fast. Crowley knelt down and wedged the sword’s hilt between his knees. He brought the silver manacles down onto the sword’s edge, lock-first. The manacles broke and fell to the ground in pieces on either side of the blade. Hastur looked towards the sound. Aziraphale took advantage of the distraction and swept Hastur’s leg out from underneath him. Hastur landed on his wounded arm and dropped his own sword in pain. 

Both combatants were now on the ground, simultaneously grappling at each other and trying to stand up. One of the angels had manifested his wings to try and get additional leverage on the floor, but all it did was make Crowley lose track of which one was Hastur and which one was Aziraphale. 

_Need to get control of the situation,_ he thought. He strode forward and picked up the second sword, which had gone out. ”Stop,” he said, moving forward with both swords in front of him. The two figures before him started, surprised. Both had their wings extended. “Stand up, slowly.” They obeyed. 

“Crowley -,” the Aziraphale on the right began, just as the Aziraphale on the left said, “You need to -” 

“Shut up. Both of you,” said Crowley. He motioned them against the wall furthest from the portal. The two Aziraphales looked identical, down to the snowy whiteness of their wings. Their auras overlapped, smells blending together. They were both missing their right hands from recent wounds. “I know one of you is Hastur. No other fucking soul in all creation would bother to avenge Ligur,” he spat. “So your plan was to kill me slowly, wearing Aziraphale’s face?” 

“Yes, and he was also going to -” Aziraphale on the right. 

“I don’t fucking care,” said Crowley. “Right now all I want to know is - which one of you is the real one? Which one is Hastur?” _Which one is it? I need to - What is something only the real Aziraphale would know?_

“That time I saved you from the guillotine in France, why were you there?” he tried. 

“For crepes,” said the Aziraphale on the left. Crowley sighed with relief. 

“He knows because he read my journals!” the Aziraphale on the right interjected. 

“You keep a journal?” said Crowley, with surprise. 

“It’s useful for keeping track of one’s day-to-day miracles, to-do-lists, and such.” 

“We’ll have to talk about that glaring hole in your security when we get out,” said Crowley. _If we get out._ He sagged against a stalagmite. _I need to ask something else._ “How did I get the holy water I killed Ligur with?” tried Crowley, looking carefully at their faces. 

“You were going to steal it from a church -” supplied the Aziraphale on the left. “- and then I blessed some for you so you wouldn’t,” interrupted the Aziraphale on the right. Neither angel’s face betrayed anything but fierce earnestness. 

_Maybe a different tack,_ he thought. “What did I retrieve from Jerusalem before the Kingdoms split?” 

“The Seal of Solomon,” they both said, almost at the same time. 

_Shit. I never told the angel that. Shit, shit, shit._ Crowley had a horrifying thought. _What if neither of them was real? What if this was another one of Hastur’s tricks?_

His mind spiralled downward into this new possibility. 

_Losing hope, but rescued by Aziraphale just in time, who turns out to be Hastur’s accomplice in disguise. Nailed to a wall again. Escaping again. Being caught again._

_Again, and again, and again-_

_It would be easier to just fall on your sword, like the Romans did. Then Hastur wouldn’t have the satisfaction of taking you out himself._

_But,_ asked a second voice, that sounded a lot like Aziraphale, _what if that’s what Hastur wanted you to do all along?_

 _He wants me to destroy myself?_ Crowley wondered. 

_Or to want to destroy yourself_ , the second voice continued.

 _It would explain why he was wearing Aziraphale’s face._ And, Crowley reflected, it had worked. Hastur had found the chink in his armor and hammered, and Crowley had been ready to dive head-first into a pit of holy water rather than wait for Aziraphale - Hastur - to push him in. 

Unbidden, he imagined looking into Aziraphale’s face as the angel pushed a blade slowly into his chest and twisted it - 

_No._ He _had_ to trust that this wasn’t part of another ploy to bring up his hopes before crushing them again. He _had_ to trust that one of the Aziraphales was real.

But Crowley felt no closer to figuring which was which, and he could still feel himself weakening from blood loss.

 _Clock’s ticking_ , he thought. _Much longer and I’ll discorporate, and then one of them will kill the other -_

He didn’t want to entertain that train of thought any longer - he had to choose. 

And if neither was real - 

_Well, then it doesn’t matter which one you choose, does it?_

“Crowley, you know it’s me,” pleaded the Aziraphale on the right. 

“No, I really don’t,” replied Crowley. 

“But you know I’ve always -” began the Aziraphale on the left. 

“You might not,” the Aziraphale on the right continued, “but I know that you -” 

“Just shut up and let me get a word in-”

“- have no reason to trust me after Hastur -” 

“Crowley - please - I love you,” cried the Aziraphale on the left. 

The Aziraphale on the right looked furious. “How dare you, after -” 

Crowley felt pain jolt through his side, causing him to stumble. His shirt was soaked with blood. _I’m out of time._ “Stop,” he said. He reached a hand out to the Aziraphale on the left. “You. You’re the real Aziraphale.” 

And the Aziraphale on the left took it, smiling in weary relief. “I knew you’d see through Hastur,” said the angel.

The Aziraphale on the right looked on in horror. “Crowley -” 

“Shut up,” said Crowley, exhausted. “We’re leaving. You-” he pointed to the Aziraphale on the right, “- stay where you are. If you come after me, I’ll rip your wings off.” He kept one of the swords trained on the angel on the wall, and handed the other one to the angel beside him. Then, taking Aziraphale by his injured arm, careful to shield it from further injury, he led them both towards the portal.

They were steps from the portal when Crowley heard a hiss of hot metal behind him - 

\- but he was prepared. With his left hand, he jerked Aziraphale’s - Hastur’s - injured arm, hard, so that Hastur’s back was to the portal. He drew the sword with his right hand - _damn, it’s not lighting_ \- and parried the sword the demon brought down on him from above. 

The blow knocked the sword out of his hand, and Crowley fell to the ground. _Shit, I’m out of practice,_ he thought as he lost his grip on Hastur’s arm. Hastur’s eyes shone black in Aziraphale’s face. Crowley scrabbled backwards, trying to get away. _Shit._ Hastur swung the flaming sword downwards. Crowley rolled to the side. _The sword, I need the sword -_

It was too far, he’d never - 

He saw Aziraphale move, faster than he’d ever seen him move before. From the ground, bracing himself on his knee, he blocked Hastur’s downward strike with the dagger that Hastur had used to cut Crowley open a few minutes previously. 

Hastur seemed surprised, and staggered backwards. Aziraphale straightened up, and before Hastur could recover, drove the dagger in between the demon's ribs. Crowley could see no trace of warmth in Aziraphale’s blue eyes. 

Hastur lost control of his corporation, and began reverting to his thatch-haired, black-eyed form. He knocked Aziraphale’s hand away from the dagger, and pulled it out of his chest. The dagger began smoking and crumbled into useless black fragments. Then Hastur grinned, teeth yellow and cracked, and his body slumped into the ground, transformed into a swarm of maggots. The horde pulsated once, twice, and then dispersed for the portal, which blazed with a blinding green flare. Hastur was gone. 

“Oh, fuck,” said Aziraphale, and sat down hard, beside Crowley. 

“At least he hasn’t got the sword,” said Crowley. “Thank G- someone - that maggots haven’t got hands. That would be disgusting.” 

“Any chance the portal finished him off?” asked Aziraphale bleakly. 

“Unlikely,” said Crowley. “Nevermind killing him, he’ll be impossible to find as long as he’s a pile of maggots.” 

They sat in silence in the cave for a moment. 

“You’re injured,” said Aziraphale, gently. Crowley forced himself not to flinch as Aziraphale passed his hand over the wounds on Crowley’s arms and chest, staunching the worst of the bleeding. 

“There,” he continued. “I haven’t got the power to heal you completely, but that should hold it in for now.” 

“Thank you,” said Crowley. 

“Why did you pick-” began Aziraphale, as he got up and pulled Crowley to his feet. 

“Keep your enemies closer,” croaked Crowley. 

“So that was a ruse, and you knew which one was - me?” 

“Yes,” said Crowley, “but I had to be sure.” 

“But how did you...” said Aziraphale. 

“Bugger the questions,” said Crowley. “Let’s get out of here.” He picked up his sword and stowed it away. He offered the other sword to Aziraphale, who took it.

They stepped through the portal into the darkness of the forest at Hampstead Heath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation between Crowley, Hastur, and Aziraphale was inspired by Chapter 8 of Mirror, Mirror by improbabledreams900. The wing-related imagery of this chapter was inspired by Chapter 2 of A Memory of Eden by the same author. And to boot, the dagger that Aziraphale stabs Hastur with is imagined to crumble like the morgul-blade that the Nazgul stabs Frodo with. 
> 
> Don't think a happy ending is coming next chapter, we're only halfway...


	5. Chapter Four: Prophecy and Lies

Aziraphale collapsed the portal behind them as they stepped through. Then he wiped the stone arch into dust motes that hung for a moment in the starlight before the wind blew them away. 

They began walking through the forest. 

“Where are we going?” asked Crowley, eyes nearly shut from pain and exhaustion. 

“To the one place in the country where we can regroup safely,” said Aziraphale. He’d fashioned his scarf into a sling again, and tucked his injured arm into his jacket. 

Crowley groaned and sagged against him. “And where’s that?” 

Aziraphale was tired, but Crowley was clearly worse-off, leaning nearly his full weight against Aziraphale. “Lower Tadfield,” he said. “If it hid the Antichrist for eleven years, it can hide us for a few days.” He kept his senses open and scanned the path ahead for traces of Hastur’s aura. There was no trace of Hastur as they walked through the forest. Not a soul to be found, in fact, except for a pair of startled squirrels and a steady choir of chirping crickets. Aziraphale forced himself to stay calm and steady, so that Crowley wouldn’t stumble.

He led them to where he thought Crowley had parked the Bentley, retracing the path he had watched Hastur and Crowley follow in the mirror.

Crowley seemed to wake up a little, as they shuffled down the pavement. “I’ve parked the Bentley here somewhere,” he said, the sentence a little more than a sigh.

“I know, my dear,” said Aziraphale. 

“How? I don’t remember us being here before,” said Crowley. 

“There are signs pointing back to the lot,” said Aziraphale. 

Mercifully, the car had not been towed by the traffic wardens in the time they’d been away. 

Aziraphale was still in considerably better shape than Crowley, despite having only one hand, so by default he would have to drive the Bentley. He gently helped Crowley into the passenger seat. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror - the demon was taller than he was.

“Didn’t know you could drive,” said Crowley. 

“One picks up a few things from observation,” said Aziraphale. “Though - you might not have been the best role model in that regard.” He turned the key - Crowley always left the key in the ignition - and started the engine. He backed up out of the parking space cautiously, and began driving to Lower Tadfield, following all the regulations of the Highways Act, and at exactly two miles under the speed limit.

Worryingly, Crowley barely spoke or moved as they left London. Aziraphale thought it looked _wrong_ for him to be so still. He wasn’t asleep, or unconscious, but his eyelids stayed resolutely shut and he seemed to be elsewhere, far, far away from the Bentley or Aziraphale. Aziraphale was afraid to look away from Crowley, but he couldn’t risk discorporating them both in a collision, and he forced himself to look ahead. 

When the silence grew too thick, he nudged Crowley. “Would you like a bit of music, my dear?” There was no response, but his chest rose and fell in slow, shallow breaths. Aziraphale rifled through the glovebox and put a cassette into the player at random. A song opened with gentle piano before Brian May began to sing. 

_A hand above the water_

_An angel reaching for the sky_

_Is it raining in heaven_

_Do you want us to cry?_

He thought that the familiar song might soothe his nerves, but then the chorus kicked in.

_One by one_

_Only the good die young_

_They're only flyin' too close to the sun_

_And life goes on_

_Without you_

Aziraphale’s hands began to shake. That it was Brian May singing instead of Freddie Mercury should have tipped him off. He ejected the tape from the player and threw it into the backseat, and tried to concentrate on navigation. The names of the street signs grew increasingly more meaningless as the road grew narrower, the trees grew taller, and other vehicles on the road seemed to disappear entirely. But just as all roads led to Rome, many ley lines led to Lower Tadfield. He reached ahead with his power to see where the strongest ones converged. 

The Bentley drove on in silence, broken only by the hum of the engine, and the patter of raindrops on the roof. Aziraphale fumbled with the knobs beside the steering wheel, trying to remember which one turned on the wiper blades. He succeeded in brightening the headlamps and spurting wiper fluid onto the windshield. 

“It’s the one on the left,” rasped Crowley from the passenger seat. 

“Thank you, my dear boy,” said Aziraphale, gratefully. He let himself glance at Crowley again, and wished he hadn’t. Crowley was breathing shallowly and pressed up against the left side of the seat, leaning against the window. _Oh_ , thought Aziraphale. _Hastur and my -_

Tears blurred his vision and he forced himself to concentrate on driving. _Discorporation would be most inconvenient_ , he thought. _Discorporation and worse._

The Bentley hummed along peacefully for another hour before the engine began to stall. 

Although Aziraphale had learned how to drive from watching Crowley, he hadn’t learned how to change a tire, or how to pump gas. And he hadn’t the same imagination as Crowley did when it came to the finer points of automobile maintenance. So when the fuel gauge fell to empty, the Bentley rolled to a stop on the outskirts of Lower Tadfield. 

The rain was still drizzling. Aziraphale opened the driver-side door and almost regretted it, as the rain began to flatten his hair and soak through his clothes. Aziraphale thought about miracling more fuel into the tank, but he didn’t really understand what fuel was made of, beyond a vague idea of hydrocarbons and liquefied corpses. It was probably best not to risk it, lest the Bentley explode. 

“Come on,” he said, trying to help Crowley out of the car. “We’ll have to walk from here.” Crowley grunted in response.

They limped together on the side of the road in the rain, Aziraphale mostly upright, Crowley barely clinging to his shoulders. 

“Come on,” gasped Aziraphale, as he supported Crowley. “Just a bit further.” He didn’t know if that was a lie or not, because he hadn’t been thinking about where to go once they actually made it to Tadfield. He closed his eyes and try to feel the pulse of the ley lines in the earth. _There._ He _looked_ further along the lines, and then he knew where they could go. 

It was dawn when they stumbled onto the threshold of Jasmine Cottage. Aziraphale pounded on the door. “Anathema! Newt!”

“ _There._ ” It took a moment for Aziraphale to realize that Crowley had spoken, and that he was pointing at an index card taped to the door.

_Five days after the mornyng star hath set and waters hath fallen ynside the hall of historie, thre hands knock on thy door, who w're with thee at the ende of alle thyngs. Doon not be ther to answer. Aye, leave bread and salt f'r the thre, but wend far hence, lest thou art caught betwixt. And at thy hearth, thre shalt beest four, yet two thanne beest one. For he shal fleeth East to fynd corage and sooth yn the face of fear, and Caledfwlch shal burn bylowe the moon, ere one beest two agayn, to be togeth'r forevermore._

And scrawled on the back, in Anathema’s hand: 

  * _Three become four - a birth?_
  * _Morning star - Lucifer? Dawn?_
  * _There at the end of all things - Adam & Them (local)? Shadwell & Tracy (too old to get pregnant)? Horsemen (indisposed)? _
  * _Vandals set off the fire alarm inside the British Museum_



Followed by a note, in somewhat neater handwriting:

_Hello Crowley and Aziraphale, we heard you were going to be in the area. Sorry we couldn’t stick around - Newt and I have unexpectedly gone on vacation in Bali. Come in and make yourself at home. Here’s the key._

The key to Jasmine cottage was taped to the index card there. 

And below that, in Newt’s chickenscratch: 

_Best of luck!_

Aziraphale wasn’t in the mood to decode any prophecies at the moment. He tore the index card from the key with his teeth and unlocked the door to Jasmine Cottage. The index card fluttered down to the ground, where the rain wiped the ink into a puddle. 

Aziraphale adjusted Crowley’s weight on his shoulders. Then, with the last reserves of their strength, they climbed the stairs, and the angel opened the bedroom door. 

There was a bed with the covers untucked. Aziraphale set Crowley down awkwardly on the bed, muddy boots and all, and then collapsed in an armchair beside him. 

∽⧗∼

_Crowley was in the museum, a crown on his head and Aziraphale on his arm. The angel’s cloak would have been terrifically hideous if it weren’t for the fact that it was Aziraphale who was wearing it. He looked at the angel and saw him smile back, and a gentle warmth filled his chest that owed nothing to the champagne he had drunk._

_Crowley was in a park, sitting on a hill over a duck pond. He closed his eyes and felt Aziraphale kiss him. Then he opened his eyes and saw black, black eyes in the angel’s face, and his blood turned to ice._

_Crowley was in the cave, straining against the chains on his wrists. He spat a gobbet of bloody saliva at Aziraphale. It landed on his creamy waistcoat. “Oh dear,” said the angel. He passed his hand over the spreading red spot and wiped it from existence. Then he looked at Crowley, and with a gesture, hoisted him upwards until his feet were six feet from the ground. Crowley’s shoulders burned as he swung from the chain. Aziraphale extended his wings and rose up to meet him, face-to-face. “Bloodstains don’t miracle out properly,” he said, idly, donning a pair of heavy gauntlets. “Is that why you always wear black?” Before Crowley could respond, the angel slammed an armoured fist into his gut._

_Crowley was in the Bentley, and Aziraphale was driving, white knuckles on the steering wheel. “What do the F and the E mean, on the dash?” the angel asked lightly. His arm was in a tartan-patterned sling. He didn’t wait for Crowley to respond._

_Crowley was in the dark, pulling at the chains. He tried to slip into the form of a snake, a transformation that came as easily as breathing, but instead of the comforting rustle of scales sliding against each other he felt only the manacles on his wrists, growing heavier the harder he tried to transform. He tried to pull his wrists free, rubbing the skin on his hands raw and bloody. He screamed into the smothering darkness, hoping that somebody - anybody - would hear him._

_Crowley was in the forest, leaning on Aziraphale. The rain fell on them, cold and unrelenting. He wanted to stand up straight, but he couldn’t. The angel’s wrist was bleeding through the sling. “Just a bit further,” Aziraphale said, adjusting Crowley’s weight across his shoulders with his other hand. “Just a bit further.”_

_Crowley was in the cave, hanging slackly from the wall by his wrists and his wings. Every breath brought pain. Aziraphale stroked his cheek. “My dear, I wasn’t sure you’d wake up,” he said. “I’m glad you did.” His eyes were soft and blue. Crowley shuddered at his touch, and Aziraphale’s eyes darkened. “We’ve got some ways to go yet.” Crowley opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out._

“My dear,” Aziraphale said again. Crowley opened his eyes, and saw the angel’s kindly, anxious face staring over him. He was lying in a bed, he realized, in a room with delicate lily-patterned wallpaper, flooded with morning sunlight. A pair of sunglasses rested on the nightstand, next to a singed sheaf of parchment labelled “The Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.” Beside the bed was an armchair, fortified with rumpled pillows and a mustard-coloured knitted throw. Crowley drew a breath, cautiously, and felt no pain. He pushed aside the covers and looked down. His wounds had been healed, and the tears in his clothing had been repaired. His wings were safely tucked away. 

“Where am I?” he asked, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He slid the sunglasses onto his face. 

“Jasmine Cottage. Anathema and Newt’s place,” Aziraphale said. “They’re in Bali, unexpectedly. Or possibly avoiding the country right now. We’ve got the whole cottage to ourselves. I’ll be right back,” he added, bustling out of sight. 

Crowley closed his eyes as soon as Aziraphale had left the room. The angel left the smell of beeswax and lavender in the wake of his aura. There was no trace of jasmine flowers at all. _That must have been a bit of Hastur that he couldn’t disguise_ , Crowley noted, with forced detachment. 

From below sounded the clanking of cookware, and soon after, the whistling of a kettle. 

Aziraphale returned with a tray, and a cup of tea. “Have some tea, Crowley,” he said. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, as Crowley drank the tea. The tea was terrible and he didn’t feel like drinking it, but he felt even less like talking at the moment. 

He found it to be far too small of a cup anyways, and he wished he had drunk it more slowly. 

“Thanks for patching me up,” he said. “Expect that y- Hastur made a lot of little holes.” 

“What else are friends for?” said Aziraphale, smiling. “It was a fiddly bit of work, but -” he gestured at nothing in particular “- there’s something about this place that makes it easier.” 

“How about my wings?” he asked. 

Aziraphale’s lips formed into a little _o_ of delight. “Your wings manifested when you were asleep.” He bit his lip. “You were shaking and screaming when I healed them, and I couldn’t wake you up. I hope it didn’t hurt.”

“Didn’t feel a thing, angel,” Crowley reassured him. He noticed that Aziraphale was no longer wearing his arm in a sling. “Your hand looks better,” he said. 

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale said, flexing his right hand. “I regenerated it. Almost as good as new. Just a bit stiffer than the old one.” 

“Take long?” he asked. 

Aziraphale shrugged. “A few days, but I had a lot of time when you were out. Managed to fit in some light reading, too.” He gestured to a stack of _New Aquarian_ magazines piled beside the armchair. “Would you know, Joseph Stalin was spotted at an Eat-Rite in St. Louis last month?” 

Crowley grunted. “Unlikely, angel, since last I heard he was doing management consulting for Dagon’s department.”

“Oh,” sighed Aziraphale. “I should write to the editor about their shoddy fact-checking. Journalism isn’t what it used to be.” 

“Nobody saw the internet coming,” reassured Crowley. He swung his legs sideways off the bed. 

“You shouldn’t strain yourself, my dear,” Aziraphale fretted. “Your injuries were much more serious than mine. I feared you might end up discorporated again. It would be terrible if you had to have to file forms in quintuplicate to get a new body.” 

A chill passed over Crowley at that thought. Head office was unlikely to provide him with a new corporation, even if he filled out the forms correctly on the first try. He changed the subject. 

“What happened to your hand in the first place?” Crowley asked. 

“Hastur happened,” said Aziraphale, succinctly. 

“Did he... catch up with you in London?” 

“He broke into my bookshop,” said Aziraphale, “and I came out at the wrong end of it.” 

“Didn’t happen to be a problem with your sword, did it? I’ve found their reliability incredibly poor. The manufacturer ought to recall them,” said Crowley. 

“My sword lit up fine,” said Aziraphale. “But as you might recall, my bookshop is quite flammable. It was a miracle the place didn’t burn down again.” 

“A miracle indeed,” said Crowley. 

“Hmm,” hummed Aziraphale. “I never got to share my theory with you about the swords.”

“Don’t let me stop you, angel.” 

“Well, you know I was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden,” he began. “My sword was given to me to, well, guard things, and to carry out God’s will, and that kind of thing. And guarding is a very broad category of actions. I could be guarding myself, or the bookshop, or doing some pre-emptive guarding of some sort. So the sword lights up whenever it’s guarding something. It’s not too picky.” 

“What about when War had it lit up?” 

Aziraphale shrugged. “I mentioned carrying out God’s will, didn’t I? Anyways, I didn’t have the sword long, and even when I did, I didn’t give it much purpose beyond ‘guard this thing’ or ‘God’s will is this way.’ Your sword, on the other hand, was entrusted by Michael to Arthur specifically to uphold the chivalric virtues.” 

“The chivalric virtues being loyalty, compassion, generosity, valour, _et cetera_ , _et cetera_ ,” recalled Crowley.

Aziraphale smiled delightedly. “So you do pay attention sometimes!” 

“Not on purpose,” said Crowley. “You spent a good decade of the twelfth century obsessed with chivalry. But hardly any of those supposed _virtues_ are really embodied by swinging a sword around.” 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “We have to remember that Michael is the General of God’s Armies. She’s a militant type. So though she _said_ the sword was for upholding the chivalric virtues, she was probably only thinking of, oh, valour. Maybe loyalty.

“The result of that charge was a sword that will only light up if you’re fighting bravely for a noble cause. You know, spitting in the face of fear, defending fair maidens, that sort of thing” 

“It lit up when we retrieved it from the museum too,” interjected Crowley. 

“Well, it lit up when Michael handed it to Arthur too,” said Aziraphale, “so I wouldn’t worry too much about that initial flare-up. The sword was probably over-excited from changing hands, for the first time in over a thousand years. Probably even more so because you were wearing a temporally appropriate crown.” 

“Seems a rubbish rule that your sword judges you for being brave enough or whether you’re trying to kill someone for the right reason before it decides whether or not it wants to light up,” said Crowley. 

“I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it eventually,” said Aziraphale. 

“Huh,” said Crowley, dubiously. “How come Excalibur didn’t light up when I was holding you and Hastur at swordpoint, or even when I was fighting Hastur?” 

“Threatening people in cold blood isn’t chivalric, however you try to spin it. As for when you were fighting Hastur - maybe it didn’t think you were properly motivated,” said Aziraphale, but he didn’t sound convinced. 

“I was absolutely properly motivated,” said Crowley, “by the thought of not wanting to get stabbed by a vengeful Duke of Hell.” 

“Self-preservation is not a chivalric virtue,” said Aziraphale. 

“And Hastur’s revenge is?” 

“Not revenge - _justice_ ,” corrected Aziraphale. 

Crowley snorted. “Hastur wouldn’t know justice from a blind go-go dancer.” 

“But the sword doesn’t know that,” said Aziraphale mildly. 

“Well, the sword also lit up for you,” said Crowley, “after you burst into the cave.” 

“Did it really?” asked Aziraphale. “I wasn’t keeping track of which sword was where.” 

“I’m certain you had Excalibur,” said Crowley. 

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale noncommittally. 

They sat in silence again. 

“How did you know which one was me, back there?” asked Aziraphale.

Crowley shivered. Trust the angel to get right to the heart of the issue. He didn’t want to think about it at all, let alone tell him how he’d known. He thought about lying to Aziraphale. _I didn’t actually know_ or _Guess I got lucky_ or _I knew Hastur would show himself eventually_ were all reasonable-sounding answers that could hold him off, for a time. 

The thought of telling the truth crossed his mind, but he didn’t dare contemplate it further. Aziraphale was an angel. Crowley was a demon. Lies were an established part of his purported repertoire. 

_You were always a coward,_ he thought to himself, and he chose a lie. “I knew Hastur would show himself before I left the cave,” he said. “So it didn’t matter which one of you I picked. But I needed to get some space between the two of you, so that you wouldn’t get mixed up again.” 

“But you also said, ‘Keep your enemies close,’” said Aziraphale, looking thoughtful. 

_Damn._ “It seemed like the right moment to say it,” said Crowley. “You’re looking too hard into it, angel. You’ll be seeing the Messiah in your scones next.”

Aziraphale began pacing through the small bedroom. “What if Hastur had been the one you- the one you left behind?” asked the angel. “He could have snuck up on us then. Or - or the real Hastur could have stabbed you after you both left the portal.” 

“So maybe my plan wasn’t up to snuff this time,” snapped Crowley. He doubled down on his chosen story. “But I didn’t have a lot of better ideas, alright? Hastur slipped up in the cave, and then you came bursting in; he wasn’t going to wait much longer for his revenge. Did you hear what he said after you came in?” He took a breath. “He wanted you to watch me die. A witness to his brilliant vengeance. So either - either he’d have killed me, or we’d have taken him down, but I knew he was going to act before we left the cave. There was no other option for him.”

“That isn’t true,” said Aziraphale. “Hastur escaped. He’s out in the world somewhere, and he’s got his eye on more than a fresh carrion luncheon.” He took a deep breath, and continued, trying to sound calm, but succeeding only in sounding strained. “What I’m trying to say is - I understand that you couldn’t tell us apart, and I’m not sure I could have done it under the same circumstances. But I wish you didn’t have to leave a decision to chance like that. It was risky, and you could have died,” he finished, a pleading note in his voice. 

“I had no choice,” Crowley hissed. “Maybe next time _I’ll_ get myself impersonated by a Duke of Hell, and you can get tortured for a few days and try to tell us apart, and then we’ll come out of it and I can tell you how you should have handled it instead.” Crowley regretted saying it almost instantly - he didn’t know how Aziraphale had spent their time apart - but he was in too deep; he had to commit. 

Aziraphale looked for a moment like he might cry, but then it was like a curtain had drawn over his face, and Crowley looked away. “Sorry, but you won’t be getting that chance. There aren’t any other vengeful Dukes of Hell out there with our names on their to-do lists. Only Hastur,” he said coldly. “He’s already tried that trick once, and it won’t work again.” There was no ambiguity or uncertainty in his voice. 

“Did he tell you that he was the only one with it out for us?” asked Crowley. 

“He told me, Crowley. He saw us in Berkeley Square when we switched forms. And he did what he did for Ligur.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “He didn’t tell anybody else, because he wanted to be the only one to carry out his retribution on you.” 

“Are you sure -” 

“I _know_. He had no reason to lie to me.” Aziraphale was shouting, by this point. 

Crowley felt dizzy as Aziraphale’s aura filled the room, cold and angry, as if to underscore the truth. The room felt suffocating. _If it was really just Hastur, and he was after me this whole time, and Aziraphale had been collateral damage to make sure he didn’t interfere -_

Crowley threw his feet over the edge and staggered upright. He knew what he had to do. 

“Where are you going? You need to rest,” protested Aziraphale, but Crowley couldn’t listen to his voice anymore. He needed to go as far, far away from Jasmine Cottage as possible. Far from Tadfield. As far away from the angel as possible.

“I need some fresh air,” he mumbled, concentrating on not tripping over his feet as he shuffled towards the door. 

“You can barely walk, you’ll-” 

“Please,” said Crowley. He turned to look Aziraphale in the eye, finally. “I need to go.” Aziraphale’s face was tight, but his lips trembled. Crowley turned away. 

He made it to the threshold of Jasmine Cottage and threw open the front door. The Bentley was parked outside. Aziraphale must have filled up the tank and moved it out of the forest when Crowley had been unconscious.

He heard Aziraphale’s steps a few metres behind him, but it didn’t seem like the angel was going to stop him from leaving. Crowley wished that Aziraphale might try again to stop him from leaving, to ask him to stay, and then maybe he might be able to tell Aziraphale the truth about what happened in that cavern. 

But that didn’t happen. Crowley heard no steps behind him as he finally stretched out his wings. They were a flawless expanse of glossy black feathers. Miraculously, Aziraphale had healed them perfectly. There was no trace of where Hastur had punctured them with the vicious silver pins. Crowley felt the wind rustle through his feathers. He choked down the impulse to turn around, to thank Aziraphale for taking care of his car, and to wrap his wings around the angel and show him the fruits of his labour. 

But cowardice won out again, and before he could second-guess himself, Crowley took flight. 

He was both relieved and crushed that Aziraphale didn’t follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the multiple updates which were the same chapter - I had computer trouble and didn't realize that I'd posted it already! 
> 
> Thanks to GraphiteGirl for her expertise on American diner chains. 
> 
> I wasn't feeling up to writing a whole scene with Newt and Anathema properly, so a cameo is all we get.
> 
> Jasmine flowers exude a fragrance compound, indole, which smells flowery in low concentrations, but in high concentrations smells intensely fecal... hence, Hastur.


	6. Chapter Five: The Face of Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley travels east.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favourite chapter in the story.

Crowley stopped in London long enough to arrange a plant sitter. 

Then he boarded first class on the next flight to the continent. _Paris_. 

Paris was a mistake. It was too close to London. It had too many of the complicated pastries that Aziraphale liked. Crowley found them ridiculous and had convinced a chef in the 19th century to compose a pastry to end all other pastries. He had hoped to prove to Aziraphale that surely there was a limit as to how froufrou a dessert could be before it became too precious and too unwieldy to consume. The result of the chef’s labours had been the croquembouche, which was literally a tower of profiteroles held together by the sheer force of will. And the overall endeavour had also been a complete failure anyways, since Aziraphale and Crowley had eaten the entire croquembouche together in one go. He should never have succumbed to his own temptation, or gotten “high on his own supply,” as they called it nowadays. Now Crowley could hoover madeleines, macarons, and mille-feuilles off a plate as well as anyone. But he didn’t have much of an appetite for silly French pastries at the moment. 

He went east to Germany. Germany was nice. A century and a half ago, he had whispered _realpolitik_ into the ears of Rochau and Bismarck and peeled off another layer off the courtliness of diplomacy, and then he had gently arranged for a little Bavarian festival to become a gluttonous autumnal celebration of excess and corporate sponsorship. Then he passed a shop display in Munich and it reminded him of the time that Aziraphale had tried on lederhosen, and how the angel had worn them as he danced the gavotte in a barn during a wedding of a farmer’s son and a baker’s daughter, as the band played and the moon rose. And as much as Crowley disdained the gavotte, he hadn’t the heart to turn Aziraphale down when the angel pulled him into the dance, his cheeks flushed like the strawberry wine they had both drunk. 

He went east to Greece. Greece was fine. He hadn’t been there since the Parthenon’s friezes still had all their colour, before they’d been bleached white by time and neglect. In Greece he had asked a series of pointed questions to Soctrates to teach him the elenctic method, which would be known through the ages as the Socratic method. He had gleefully watched the philosopher drive his students insane with that pedagogy. Then Crowley had applied the Socratic method to Aziraphale, conversing in nothing but questions, until the angel had cottoned on and refused to speak to him ever again. He’d wormed his way back into Aziraphale’s good graces by making a detour to the sacked Library of Ashurbanipal in Nineveh en route to a demonic assignment, and bringing back a copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh. It had been damned heavy too, since it was written on clay tablets. The angel had been delighted by the gift, and would read it to Crowley as Athens slept, tablets and skin and hair softly illuminated by the glow of oil lamp. Aziraphale’s Sumerian had gotten rusty, even then, but Crowley had found himself hanging on to every word. He wondered if Aziraphale still remembered enough Sumerian to read it to him again. Then he shook his head and left. 

He went east, to Israel. Or was it Palestine? Crowley couldn’t tell. He’d received a commendation for fomenting discord then, even though he had spent every sojourn in the Holy Land eating figs in the market and drinking wine in the shade of colourful canopies. And more often than not, Aziraphale had been with him, refilling his cup when it emptied. Then, outside Jerusalem, he had duelled Aziraphale during the first Crusade, using swords so shoddily made they might as well have been wooden clubs. His heart hadn’t really been in it, and Aziraphale had been pulling his blows too. Their battle had stretched on under the beating sun until the angel had tripped over a bit of rubble and Crowley had accidentally run him through. Then a well-placed catapult stone brought a wall down on both of them. Beezelbub had been so pleased she’d expedited his recorporation paperwork. “Well done, Crowley, taking the enemy agent down,” she’d said. And Crowley had nodded mutely from faraway, where in his mind’s eye he watched the light go out of Aziraphale’s eyes, and wondered how he should best apologize the next time he saw the angel again. 

He followed the coast of the Mediterranean to Egypt, the mouth of the Nile. He began to follow the river southwards. There, in the distant past, he had spent several decades masquerading as the snake god Apophis _,_ embodying chaos, startling children, and the like. He thought proudly of the years where he’d convinced the pharaoh Amenhotep to change his name to Akhetaten and embrace monotheism two millennia ahead of schedule. That had been a tricky piece of work, though it hadn’t lasted long. Aziraphale had gotten wind of his efforts and decapitated him in the guise of Ma’at, the winged personification of truth, justice, and the Egyptian Way. Crowley was convinced that the angel hadn’t even been trying to reenact the battle between Apophis and Ma’at or Ra or whatever, and that he had just rolled up wearing whatever terrible linen tunic he’d favoured that millennium. But even more terrible had been the cold look in the angel’s face that said _you are nothing to me,_ and that had hurt more than the swing of the sword that took his head off. 

He kept walking. 

∽⧖∼ 

He made it to the Aswan Low Dam before he felt something tug on his aura. For a moment, he wondered if it was Aziraphale.

 _No, the pull’s too weak. I must be going barmy._

The feeling persisted nonetheless. He reached out with his powers, trying to feel out was calling to him. 

_There, to the south. Why would there be anything there?_ The Aswan Low Dam had flooded and wiped the region clean of anything significant years ago. The tombs in that area were all looted, and the monuments relocated. Not that there had been much in the first place. 

Aziraphale had inspired an Arab engineer, Ibn al-Haytham, to conceive of plans to dam the Nile several centuries before it had actually been accomplished. But Crowley had made a few choice insinuations about “shoddy local masons,” “unsuitable bedrock,” “taxationally intensive and financially infeasible follies,” and how “the Caliph will be _very_ disappointed in your business case.” Aziraphale had thought his work was done, and then poor al-Haytham feigned insanity and skipped town. None of the locals dared bring up anything about taming the Nile for ages after that. But, he mentally conceded, the seeds had been planted in the collective imagination, for the British had invaded centuries later, and the dam had been built after all. He supposed that the venture would count as a win for Aziraphale, if anybody was keeping track of points. 

He shook that thought loose. This wasn’t the time. 

But he followed the pull south. 

When the Aswan Low Dam had finally been built, it had flooded a great deal of the land upstream. Several monuments and temples had been relocated, predominantly due to Aziraphale’s influence, but countless tombs were inundated. Nothing of note was lost, though - Crowley had judiciously spread rumours about “the legendary treasure of Pharaoh Kamose,” and hordes of “archeologists” had descended on the valley, picking the tombs clean of all their riches before the waters rose. Some of those artifacts had even made it into museums. 

The thread of power led across the river. Crowley spread his wings and glided slowly over those waters. The moon was reflected in the reservoir.

A startled ibis took off from the river, shattering the moon’s reflection on the water. A few drops of water landed on Crowley’s face. 

They tingled unexpectedly. _Strange. Like consecrated ground, but less so. A touch of holy water, maybe?_ He wiped the water from his face and proceeded cautiously. 

_There_. On the eastern bank, he saw a small cluster of cut masonry blocks. Some of the stones had scorch marks on them. _Thought the locals would have reappropriated them all already,_ he thought. He bent down and touched it, and felt the ghost of an intense heat. _Hellfire burned here_ , he realized. 

He straightened up. A glint of moonlight caught his eye in the wreckage. He took his sunglasses off to get a better look. 

There were shards of mirror scattered in the wreckage, none larger than a penny. He bent down and picked one up, rotating it in his fingers. Unnervingly, it showed his reflection, no matter which way he turned it. _A scrying glass?_

The power felt overwhelming now, oppressive and humid. Crowley flicked his tongue out. It tasted bloody. He followed its scent to its source. 

There, nestled in the crux of two stones, was the Seal of Solomon _._

Not only that, it was still attached to the last hand that had worn it. The hand was perfectly preserved. _The ring binds demons_ , he recalled bitterly, and it had bound its last bearer in the flesh. He would have recognized the smooth fingers and neat nails anywhere. _Aziraphale?_

Crowley picked up the hand gently and eased the Seal off, being careful to not let it slip onto any of his own fingers. Aziraphale’s disembodied hand crumbled into dust. He miracled up a silk handkerchief and tightly wrapped the seal up with it. The heavy weight of power lifted, and he dropped the bundle into his jacket pocket. Silk was a wonderful insulator of power - divine, demonic, or otherwise. 

_Aziraphale. The Seal of Solomon. A scrying glass. Hellfire. Holy water._

Crowley sat down on a stone block, feeling overwhelmed. 

“Craaaaawwwwwlyyy,” the ground grated. 

He recognized the voice instantly, by the inflections and the trace of a gurgle in its throat. He drew his sword and turned around. 

A crack opened on the riverbank, and a mound of wet, squirming maggots spilled out. They coalesced into the form of a man wearing a crusty trench coat and a toad on his head. Open sores wept on his face, and his eyes were black. 

“You again?” Crowley said.

“Hello, Crawley,” said Hastur. “Ligur will be so glad to see you again. Would you mind terribly if I slipped into something more comfortable?”

“I like you better this way, which is to say, not at all,” said Crowley. His thoughts were mostly tied up in the discovery of the Seal of Solomon in the desert, but a vague, faraway part of him thought that perhaps he should be worried. Hastur was a Duke of Hell and wielded the power to match. It didn’t matter that when in corporeal form, their power mostly went into things like increasing strength, sharpening reflexes and erecting basic shields, or that the power they wielded was constrained by their ability to concentrate. A fight between Crowley and Hastur would be like pitting a hawk against an Apache attack helicopter. Aziraphale had been able to match Hastur in the cave only because the bulk of the demon’s energies had been tied up in maintaining his disguise. 

“Are you sure?” said Hastur, lowering his gaze. “I remember how much you liked me last time.” Hastur’s head-toad turned into a cloud of blonde hair. The ratty coat blurred into a tan three-piece suit. But his eyes stayed black as the bottom of a grave at nighttime, and he smelled like decay. 

_He must not be able to transform completely without the ritual,_ thought Crowley. He unsheathed his sword and willed it to burst into flames, but nothing happened. _Shit_. 

“Dear boy, is there something wrong with your sword?” mocked Hastur. He snapped a reed off at the water’s edge, and transformed it into a four-foot baseball bat with rusty roofing nails protruding from the end. 

“It’ll work perfectly well for cutting your lying head off,” said Crowley, unconvincingly. He beat his wings and rose high above the desert. 

Hastur unfolded his wings. They were black, like the wings of all demons, but with a distinctly raggedy and moth-eaten look, and they shone greasily in the moonlight. They also crawled with infernal lice. Hastur launched himself upwards to face Crowley. 

Crowley recoiled from the smell and thrust his sword at Hastur. He hit the other demon’s weapon with a dull thud. Hastur retaliated with a series of blows of his own, each more powerful than the last. Crowley struggled to deflect them, and was driven backward through the air by the force of each attack. 

On the last strike, Hastur leaned forwards, sliding his baseball bat up along Crowley’s sword and tangling it in the nails, then twisted, nearly yanking the sword out of his grasp. 

Crowley hung on to the sword with both hands. Hastur’s attempted disarmament flung him through the air, but disengaged their two weapons. He tumbled through the air, trying to right himself. 

Hastur flourished his bat and pounced down on Crowley in midair, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. The momentum sent them tumbling towards the ground. He grappled with Hastur, trying to break free, but the other demon’s grip did not relent. The ground grew closer at a frightening pace. 

“I’m gonna discorporate you, and then I’m gonna burn your angel,” growled Hastur. 

A wave of fear passed through Crowley. _No_. He reared back and kicked Hastur in the chest. His collar tore away in Hastur’s grip. Crowley flipped over from the force of the kick and flapped his wings, regaining elevation. 

He looked at Hastur, who was steadying himself from Crowley’s kick. _How dare he._ Crowley’s fear turned into a righteous frisson of anger and erupted through in flames on the sword. 

Hastur looked nonplussed by the new development. He swung his bat at Crowley’s head. Crowley ducked, and barely blocked Hastur’s followup swing. He was tiring fast. It didn’t matter that the sword had finally deigned to light up, if he couldn’t land any blows on Hastur. 

A thought seized him. He saw Ligur’s face in his mind’s eye, as he had been during the handoff of the Antichrist. _Dark skinned, fiery eyes, lizard on his head._

He concentrated and felt his flesh ripple. He couldn’t replicate Ligur’s aura, but the overall effect was sufficient to obtain the desired reaction. 

A look of horror struck Hastur. “No - Ligur - you can’t!” 

Crowley’s heart was ablaze with fury. “I just did,” he snarled, and bared his teeth at Hastur. 

“You sick bastard!” 

“Why, thank you,” said Crowley. “But of course, credit where credit’s due.” He tipped an invisible hat at Hastur and then lunged forwards in the air. 

Hastur blocked the slash. They exchanged a flurry of blows, until Hastur dodged Crowley’s last slash, and Crowley overbalanced. Hastur used his momentary advantage to grab Crowley and throw him backwards. 

He advanced on Crowley, who hastily threw his wings out to regain control of his flight. Hastur leapt forward again, bat readied for a downwards strike. Crowley tucked his wings close to his body and threw himself forwards with his sword extended. 

Hastur impaled himself on the sword, all the way to the hilt. 

Hastur’s face turned from Aziraphale’s back into his own, and he gazed right at Crowley with a terrible, hollow look in his eyes as the flames licked at his chest. Crowley yanked his sword free. 

Hastur’s wings beat a moment more, and then he fell slowly out of the sky, arcing backwards as the divine flames ate him away from the wound, leaving ashes in their wake. 

He never hit the ground. 

Crowley watched the wind scatter Hastur’s remains into the desert. Then he closed his eyes and let Ligur's face fall away, resuming his everyday form. Slowly, he descended, flaming sword still in hand. 

He stepped onto the sand, and saw a tremble of movement in the corner of his eye. 

A disposable-looking demon cowered on the sidelines, wearing terrible eyeliner and a truly unfortunate blue knit scarf over a cheap-looking polyester suit. The thought of discorporating him crossed Crowley’s mind, but then he had a better idea. He strode purposely towards the demon, who scrabbled backwards in the sand, squeaking in terror. He bent down and grabbed the demon by his lapels. 

“Do you remember what the usher said, at my trial?” he asked. The demon cowered uselessly, so Crowley answered his own question. “ _Wrong place, wrong time._

“Lucky for you, you’re in the right place, at the right time,” he continued. “Because you’re gonna go back to Hell. You’re gonna tell them what you saw. And then, you’re gonna pass on a message. 

“ _Leave me the hell alone._ ” 

He let go of the demon’s shirt, and with satisfaction, watched him scuttle into the hills. Hell’s gossip mill was relentless. By the time the demon’s account reached his manager, they’d swear by all things unholy that Crowley had grown to be sixty feet tall, had eight arms each brandishing a flaming sword, and pissed holy water to boot. 

Crowley’s thoughts turned back to the Seal of Solomon in his jacket. It was a useful thing to have in one’s back pocket, when the cards came down. Not quite as good as an ace in the sleeve, but definitely at least as good as a Knave. 

Then he remembered how the ring had come to rest on the banks of the Nile in the first place. 

When he had asked what had happened to the angel’s hand, Aziraphale had said, _Hastur happened._ Crowley had thought that meant _I came out on the wrong side of a swordfight with Hastur_ rather than _I cut it off with a slice of scrying mirror to get the Seal of Solomon off, and by the way there was hellfire everywhere, and I was also in Egypt, but I didn’t want to worry you about details like that, because I’m all tickety-boo now._

Speaking of the mirror - 

The flames on his sword wavered, as Crowley realized with a sinking feeling in his heart that Aziraphale had probably seen - well, everything. Starting with the picnic, where he had - 

_And then you just flew off, he hasn’t seen you in months, who knows what he’s thinking right now._

And then he remembered what Hastur had said back in the cave, when he had been trying to convince Crowley that _he_ was the real Aziraphale. 

_Shit, shit, shit._

The flames of his sword flickered and went out. 

Crowley put his sunglasses back on his face. He hoped that he’d be able to think of something clever to say by the time he got back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The gavotte experienced sudden [popularity](http://www.matthew-werley.com/gavotte-reception) in Germany during the late 19th century.  
> 2\. And here is a video ([Part 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8XGNppSLnnw), [Part 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAXG1yNoYKA)) of the author in the Greek chorus of a dramatic Socratic dialogue in high school English class.  
> 3\. Putting Aziraphale in a tomb that floods upstream of the Aswan Low Dam is inspired by an episode of _The Country Mouse and the City Mouse Adventures_.  
> 4\. He really is called "Disposable Demon" in the script.


	7. Chapter Six: An Uninvited Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley returns to London.

Several demonic interventions later, EgyptAir Flight 225 arrived in London, three hours early and 200 miles north of where it should have landed. 

Crowley waved himself through customs and commandeered a battered silver hatchback from the Heathrow park-and-ride lot. He’d rather have summoned his own Bentley, but he didn’t have time for it to roll in from Lower Tadfield or wherever Aziraphale had parked it. 

One journey taken well in excess of the hatchback’s advertised top speed later, he pulled up in front of A. Z. Fell & Co. at noon.

“Go home,” he said to the car. It beeped obediently and trundled down the road, dodging tourist buses and pigeons. Belatedly he realized that he should probably set it back to the park-and-ride lot. He rationalized that there was no harm done, though - the park-and-ride lot was a nightmare he had designed. _Every aisle looks exactly the same,_ he had advertised in his proposal at head office. _No mobile reception, and the range on your key fob is down to a quarter of normal!_ The hatchback’s owner would never have found it, if Crowley hadn’t sent the car home. 

The door to the bookshop was locked - it was to be expected, being outside the extremely specific opening hours. 

He miracled open the door of the bookshop, and cleared his throat. “Angel?” 

There was no response. He tried again. “Aziraphale?” 

Crowley began to panic slightly, and forced himself to calm down. There were no apparent signs of forced entry, nor more or less dust than normal. The shop looked exactly as he remembered. The only apparent difference that he could feel was a set of wards against fire damage sunken into the foundations of the shop, and anchored to the ley lines. 

He knocked at the door to the back rooms, where Aziraphale’s quarters were. “Hello? Angel?” he said. He felt both relieved and guilty that there was yet again no response. 

Crowley stepped into the hallway. The door at the end of the hallway led to the washroom. He ignored it completely. 

The door on the left of the hallway led to Aziraphale’s private study-cum-wine cellar. He supposed it might be a bedroom too, if Aziraphale ever actually slept in a bed instead of occasionally nodding off into a book on the Victorian fainting couch in the corner. _Does the angel even own a real bed?_ he wondered absently. The door was ajar, so Crowley peered in. He could make out a series of dark, leather-bound journals on a shelf against the wall. The whole room was heavily warded, with wiggly sigils on the doorframe and alternating lines of brick dust, salt, and diatomaceous earth at the threshold. Satisfied that the angel had patched his journal-shaped hole in his security, Crowley moved on. 

On the right side of the hallway was a small kitchen. It was cosy and brightly-lit with afternoon sunshine, filtering through a pair of pink rose-patterned curtains in the corner. A square table stood underneath the window, with a red-and-white checked tablecloth draped on top, and two battered, white-painted chairs tucked underneath. None of the furniture matched. Crowley paused at the half-drunk tea in a novelty angel-wing mug, and the teapot in a sheep-shaped cosy. The teapot was still hot to the touch. Aziraphale had been there less than an hour ago. 

Crowley decided that perhaps the best course of action would be to stay put and wait for Aziraphale to come back the bookshop. 

_Stay put and wait where, exactly?_ He felt uncomfortable being in the angel’s quarters. It wasn’t as if he’d never been there before, but he’d never been in Aziraphale’s inner sanctum _alone_. There was also the matter of the dawning temptation to rifle through Aziraphale’s medicine cabinet, even though he knew that it’d be empty. Angels didn’t really need soap, or toothpaste, or even washrooms. 

He glanced awkwardly around. It probably would be more polite to mill around outside at the storefront, rather than in Aziraphale’s kitchen. 

Crowley crept out of the back rooms, back into the bookshop. He had almost made it to the front door when Aziraphale burst in, flaming sword in hand. Before Crowley could react, Aziraphale grabbed his collar and shoved him up against a bookshelf with one hand hard enough to knock small books off the shelf and little stars into Crowley’s vision. With the other hand, Aziraphale held a sword to Crowley’s throat. 

“Whoa, angel, it’s just me!” he said, holding his hands up. 

“Prove it,” hissed Aziraphale, his aura bristling with divine righteousness. 

“I - uh - what happened to the presumption of innocence?” protested Crowley. 

_“Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat_ hardly applies to this situation.”

“Well, aren’t you the one declaring that I am anything other than myself, whereas I am denying any such allegations?” 

“Given recent events, it’d be terrible to fall victim to a case of mistaken identity,” said Aziraphale. 

“And wouldn’t it be just as terrible to accidentally turn me into a flaming demon kebab?” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “The Socratic method.” He licked his lips, as if to taste the air, and then shook his head. His aura dimmed. “You know I hate the Socratic method, Crowley.” 

“But could you deny that it gets the job done?” asked Crowley, proudly. 

Aziraphale did not dignify Crowley’s last question with a response, but he let go of his collar and extinguished his sword. “Well, I suppose there’s no point inviting you in,” said Aziraphale, stiffly. He locked the bookshop door behind him, and Crowley hastily tried to tidy up the fallen books. If there was a method to the madness of Aziraphale’s shelving system, he could not see it, so he stuffed them back wherever there was space. 

The angel looked unimpressed at his efforts, and gestured for Crowley to follow him into the back rooms.

“Tea?” Aziraphale asked ungraciously. 

“No, thank you,” said Crowley, and sat down at the little table in the kitchen. 

The angel ignored him and violently poured a cup of tea into a mug monogrammed with a golden curliqued “A.”. He plunked it down in front of Crowley, hard enough that some Earl Grey splattered onto the tablecloth. Then he dragged the second chair around so that he could sit down beside Crowley at the table. “Breaking into my shop - that’s a new low for you, Crowley. It’s _polite_ to wait to be invited in.” 

Crowley tried to think of a suitable response, and failed utterly. He fell back to the tried-and-true tactic of changing the topic, to throw one’s opponent off-balance. 

“Aziraphale! Where were you this morning?” The diversion worked. Aziraphale gaped slightly. 

“I was taking care of your plants,” said Aziraphale. He cleared his throat. “They’ve missed you, you know.” 

“You’ve probably let them get comfortable again,” said Crowley. “They like you too much, angel. Speaking of which, didn’t I hire a plant-sitter?” 

“Yes, but I had her sacked,” said Aziraphale. 

“Sacked? What for?” asked Crowley, mildly appalled. 

“She wasn’t treating your plants properly!” blustered Aziraphale. “Overfertilizing the ferns, overwatering the haworthias, and not rotating any of the pots.” 

“And you know that... how?” 

“If you must know, I was coming to see if - you know, if you’d come home yet,” said Aziraphale, reddening. 

Crowley’s insides shriveled. He knew it would come to that topic eventually. He had no idea how he was going to explain what he had found -

But Aziraphale beat him to it. “The plant-sitter’s never had to look after the plants for more than a week at a time, and you were gone for three months,” he rushed out. “Three months, Crowley! No letter, no phone call -” 

“It’s not like we’re joined at the hip, there were times when I didn’t see you for decades at a time!” 

“Not in the last seventy years!” shouted Aziraphale “Where _were_ you, Crowley?” 

_Ah, a question I actually know the answer to_. “Egypt. I was in Egypt,” he said, with renewed confidence. 

Aziraphale stopped cold. “What for?” 

“I was... travelling. Tourism. You know, the Sphinx and the Pyramids. That kind of thing. ” said Crowley, evasively. 

“Tourism?” said Aziraphale. “Egypt’s not what it used to be, three thousand years ago.” 

“Do I need a reason?” said Crowley, feeling personally attacked. “The chosen people wandered through the desert, and so can I!” 

“Nobody _exiled_ you, Crowley, you just up and left Tadfield!” shouted Aziraphale. “And nobody walks through the desert until they have a good reason to!”

“The Sphinx and the Pyramids not good enough of a reason for you?” 

“We were both _there_ when they were new, and they haven’t gotten better with age!” said Aziraphale. 

“It wasn’t just Egypt, angel, I visited Germany and Greece too!” protested Crowley. 

“And I suppose that was just for _tourism_ as well?” asked Aziraphale scathingly. 

“Absolutely!” declared Crowley. 

“But you ended your trip in Egypt,” continued Aziraphale, undeterred. “An odd place to cut your Grand Tour short. You’d only seen a fraction of the kingdoms of the world.” 

“Er,” said Crowley. _Desperate times call for desperate measures_ , he though. 

A horde of football hooligans burst into the bookshop. “We’ll meet you at the fuckin’ gates! We’ll meet you at the fuckin’ gates!” 

Aziraphale gave Crowley a _look_. Then he waved his hand, and the hooligans popped out of existence. 

“Where did you send them?” protested Crowley. “They hadn’t vandalized anything -” 

“They hadn’t vandalized anything _yet_ ,” said Aziraphale. “And tomorrow morning, they’ll wake up in their own beds, well-rested, having experienced puzzling yet meaningful dreams about the nature of sportsmanship, and the necessity of compassion for their fellow man.” 

“But -” 

“Stop trying to change the topic, Crowley,” the angel said mercilessly. 

Crowley fiddled with the tablecloth. 

“Remember how, in the cave, when I was trying to figure out which of you was - you, I guess - I asked you about the Seal of Solomon?” asked Crowley. 

Aziraphale nodded. “It disappeared from Jerusalem after the death of King Solomon, and the subsequent separation of the United Monarchy into Israel, in the north, and Judah, to the south.”

“Yes. Solomon had a son, Rehoboam,” began Crowley. “And Rehoboam wasn’t sure how to live up to his father’s legacy, and he thought the best way to earn the people’s respect was to look strong. And strength to him meant raising taxes, putting in mandatory minimum sentences, and erecting fancy buildings. The northern tribes took all that poorly, and seceded. There was a war. You remember the war, don’t you, angel?” 

Aziraphale nodded. “My orders at the time were to arrange a peace treaty between Rehoboam in Judah, and the northern tribes in Israel.” 

“Yeah, and my orders was to loot the palace of Jerusalem, with any theologically significant artifacts to go to head office, and the rest to be deposited directly in the Egyptian treasury.” 

“I always thought it was strange that the Pharaoh was able to raise that huge army, five years after,” said Aziraphale, wistfully. “Don’t suppose you looted the Ark of the Covenant from Jerusalem, too?” 

“Too heavy,” said Crowley. “Overloaded the donkeys with what I had, anyways, and had to shed the excess weight in the countryside. Otherwise the poor beasts would have keeled over before I made it to Tanis.” 

“Any idea where the Ark is now?” asked Aziraphale. “Head office lost track of it in all the interregna.” 

“Haven’t got a clue either,” admitted Crowley. “It was probably pillaged - if not by Egypt, then by the Philistines, or Damascus, or Babylon. Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of the Ark for millennia.” 

“Probably for the best,” said Aziraphale. “That kind of artifact would have wreaked havoc on the balance of power between our two sides. Not to mention morale.”

“I’m not sure we can call them our sides anymore,” said Crowley, “seeing as they think we’ve both gone native.” 

“Oh,” sighed Aziraphale. “We really have, haven’t we?” 

“It’s not so bad,” said Crowley.

“No, it isn’t,” agreed Aziraphale. 

“But I never told you that story before, did I?” asked Crowley. He took off his sunglasses. He was indoors, after all. 

“No,” said Aziraphale. 

“So how did you know what I retrieved from Jerusalem, when I asked you in the cave?” 

“Hastur,” said Aziraphale. His face tightened again. 

“Figures,” said Crowley. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the silk-wrapped Seal of Solomon. He pushed it towards the table towards Aziraphale. “I found the Seal in Egypt, near the Lower Aswan Dam. And pieces of scrying-glass, and traces of hellfire. Also, your hand.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize that’s where you had been, before you - before you broke into the cave.” 

“Better tuck that away,” said Aziraphale, gently sliding it back to Crowley. “It’s good to have, but - well, it’s terribly dangerous.” Crowley slipped the ring back into his pocket. “And, my dear, you don’t need to apologize,” said Aziraphale, patting Crowley’s hand. “I didn’t tell you.” 

“You should have,” said Crowley. 

“As I recall, you were recovering from your own injuries at the time,” said Aziraphale. “And you didn’t much feel like talking about what had happened in the few days prior, either.” 

“No, I didn’t,” said Crowley. 

“But - my dear - I’m sorry that I have to ask again,” Aziraphale began tentatively. “How did you know which of us was which?”

Before Crowley could say anything, Aziraphale plunged forward. “You said you couldn’t tell which of us was me, but - I know you wouldn’t have left something like that to chance. And in case something like this happens again -” He left the sentence unfinished

Aziraphale’s hand was still over his own. Crowley gazed out the window. 

“It was too good to be true,” he said, shifting his own hand out from under Aziraphale’s, to adopt a white-knuckled grip on the monogrammed mug.

“What do you mean by that, dear boy?” said Aziraphale.

“I meant what I said.” Crowley forced the words out, before he could swallow them again and turn around and change the topic or run for the Manchurian hills. “When you were in Egypt, you - you saw how Hastur fooled me.” He compelled himself to laugh, but it came out bitter. “I should have known that you -” he faltered again. He turned away from the window and saw the way that Aziraphale was looking at him, steadily.

_I owe him an answer this time._

“I should have known that you wouldn’t have done what he did, at the picnic. And then when it was you and Hastur, in that cave, and he was talking - I thought, _fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me._

 _“_ So... that’s how I knew which one was you,” concluded Crowley, lamely. 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. He didn’t move, either. Crowley gripped his mug tightly, and willed hopelessly for the world to stop in its tracks, or better yet, for time to rewind to before the Notpocalypse. 

In a moment, Aziraphale might pat him on the back or something, and tell him, _Dear, it’s alright, temptation gets the better of us sometimes,_ and then smile at him with angelic compassion. Or he might say, _That must have been hard for you to say, my dear._ Or if he was particularly unlucky, _You were right, I would never have said what he said._ Crowley didn’t think he could handle that. Every instinct in his corporation screamed at him to _run, run, run_ , back to Egypt or China or Peru and wait for it all to blow over. Wait for everybody to forget the unfortunate Hastur incident. Wait for Crowley to forget how he felt about the angel whose hand was still lying over his, warm and soft. 

_As if I could ever forget_. 

There were some things which could not be undone. Aziraphale had seen how Hastur had fooled Crowley utterly, and it was impossible to think that Aziraphale wouldn’t draw the conclusion that - 

“You mean to say that, because Hastur said he had - feelings for you, you could tell that he wasn’t me?” said Aziraphale. His expression was unreadable. Or maybe it wasn’t, and Crowley was just too far gone to see the pity in the angel’s eyes. _Damn him._ Crowley wanted to get up, thank Aziraphale for the terrible cup of tea, and then sweep dramatically out of the bookshop. But the angel’s eyes pinned him to the kitchen chair there in the afternoon light, as trapped as if Hastur had staked his wings to a cavern wall all over again. 

“Yes,” Crowley said, because he couldn’t bring himself to lie again.

“But before, you - you kissed him back, and then you said it was too good to be true -” continued Aziraphale, unrelenting in his pursuit of the truth. 

_Damn him_ , Crowley thought. _Do I have to spell it out?_

He felt as if he was on the edge of a great precipice. 

He could still laugh, and clap his hand on the angel’s back, say they were friends, and that “too good to be true” had been a terrible jape with no actual punchline. After all, they were definitely _friends_ , and the best lies were at least partially true. There had been nobody to properly talk to during his time in the field, apart from a series of meetings at head office in which management had failed to appreciate the cleverness of his plans. Aziraphale had been the only one to really understand, even if he tutted in professional disapproval at every scheme. In fact, the angel was possibly the only one of two beings in all the world who had even the faintest inkling of how Crowley had spent the last several millennia. Empires rose and fell, the mortals lived and died, Hell’s middle managers got promoted and sacked, and Aziraphale had been the only real constant in his life for six thousand years.

So it was natural that he might feel close to Aziraphale. That feeling had started in Eden, where Aziraphale had felt like something that Crowley thought he had lost forever when he Fell. That comparison had since been proven inaccurate. Crowley’s memory of Heaven before the Fall was a tattered tapestry, united in the singular impression of intense and unyielding light. But over the centuries, the angel had shown himself to be far more vibrant and glorious than anything Heaven had to offer. Crowley doubted that Aziraphale saw him in a similar light. It was theologically natural that a demon might crave the Heaven that they had lost, but what would an angel want of Hell?

Crowley had deliberately gone centuries without poking around in the part of his psyche that concerned Aziraphale. It was a small, quiet thing to get plastered with the angel, or feed the ducks with the angel, or eat sushi with the angel. And it was a small, quiet thing to make fun of the tourists lost in the roundabouts together, or save each other from discorporation, or to sprawl across the couch in the back of the bookshop and listen to the angel read aloud from his latest first-edition find. 

But it was so much more terrible to actually _admit_ that the world would be unfathomably lonely without Aziraphale. 

Or to admit that he cared about the angel in a way that the angel did not care about him. 

Aziraphale surely cared, enough to cut the Seal of Solomon off his hand and save Crowley from Hastur’s clutches - but not in the aching, gravitational-centre-of-one’s-universe way that flooded Crowley’s chest as he sat in Aziraphale’s kitchen, as if the accursed Lower Aswan Dam had broken and inundated everything downstream, including the veneer of control over his own emotions. 

He thought again about denying everything, saying that the kiss hadn’t really mattered, or that it was the wine acting when he had kissed Hastur in Aziraphale’s form, so that maybe nothing would change and they’d still have their friendship. But now Crowley had as good as admitted everything to himself, and he could not put the feelings back to the corner of his mind, where he had ignored them for ages to varying degrees of success. There was no going back, even if he lied to Aziraphale again. _Damned if I do, and damned if I don’t._ He choked back a laugh. 

He couldn’t imagine how he could make the situation more awful, but he’d rather be damned for something he did do rather than for something he didn’t do. He was a demon, after all. 

Crowley was on the edge of a great precipice, and he leapt into the abyss. 

He forced himself to look right into Aziraphale’s soft, blue eyes. Then he took a deep breath and said, ”Yes. I kissed someone that I thought was you. And you know what? I meant it.”

He felt rootless, floating, completely lost in the fabric of the universe. He didn’t want to hear what Aziraphale might say next. But every moment he spent talking was one where Aziraphale couldn’t. 

“Hastur took your form because he thought I cared for you. I thought it was a dream come true when he kissed me, because I thought it meant you felt the same way.” 

It was too late to stop. He soldiered on, eyes still locked on Aziraphale’s. 

“And you know what, angel? Hastur was right. I do love you. I’ve loved you for ages. And that’s what I have to say.” 

He’d laid out his whole hand, now. No extra Knaves up his sleeve. He turned his gaze miserably into the depths of his mug. 

Aziraphale laid a hand onto Crowley’s, which was still clenched around the handle of the cup. He wished the angel hadn’t done that. It would make everything worse, when Aziraphale told him that he didn’t feel the same way, or said something about the ineffability of the plan, or told him that he must still be suffering under Hastur’s influence because he was clearly terribly confused and mistaken and demons were fundamentally incapable of love anyways.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

“Don’t say it,” said Crowley, his voice low. 

“I knew,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley’s felt his insides lurch. “What -” 

“I suppose I always knew,” the angel said. “What was the proverb you made up in China? ‘Know thy enemy?’ It was a good one. Very insightful. I took it to heart.” 

“I thought you didn’t like my proverbs,” said Crowley. The conversation had taken a sharp turn for uncharted waters, and he didn’t know where it was going. His mouth felt completely disconnected from his brain. 

“I lied,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh,” said Crowley. 

“Though, they are rather overused.” 

Crowley felt a tiny bit of pride well up at the angel’s faint approval nonetheless, but it was flattened when the angel spoke again. 

“I’ve known you for thousands of years, Crowley,” continued Aziraphale. “Sometimes, you stroll in just when I’m about to be discorporated and save both our skins. Other times, you just show up out of the blue with books or museum funding or whatnot to cheer me up on a bad day.

“So yes,” Aziraphale said. “Deep down, I suppose I’ve always known how you felt.” 

Crowley wished the angel would just put him out of his misery already. “You’d never said anything about it before - what does that mean?” he asked, afraid of the answer. Aziraphale would say, _Well, we can try to go back to the way we were before this terrible, terrible conversation_ , and then _I was hoping that your feelings would pass but clearly I was mistaken,_ followed by _Perhaps we should take some time apart until you’ve come to your senses because your judgement is not what it used to be_. 

He looked up at last, but he hadn’t realized how close Aziraphale’s face was to his own. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “Hastur knew how you felt. 

“But he also knew how I felt,” the angel continued, “which is why he had me watch you through the glass. I didn’t know why, at first, but a few days in a dark tomb does wonders for one’s introspective faculties.” 

Aziraphale’s expression hardened. “I suppose he was hoping that I’d throw myself into the hellfire and save himself a bit of effort, but - how could I just let it go? You’ve saved my skin a dozen times. It was literally the least I could do to come and return the favour.

“And even if you hadn’t saved me all those times before, I wouldn’t have had a choice.” Aziraphale laughed, hollowly. “I would have come for you anyways. A choice between a life with you and - well - it was no choice at all.”

“What I’m trying to say, my dear - Crowley - is that -” 

Aziraphale had moved his other hand to the back of Crowley’s neck, but the angel finally seemed lost for words. 

“Maybe - what he said, back in the cave - maybe it’s not too good to be true,” said Aziraphale, softly, and then he kissed Crowley. 

It was a careful kiss, with the weight of practice behind it, but Crowley felt like he was drowning, and that Aziraphale was all he could cling to. It felt - simultaneously more tentative and less uncertain, than when - 

He abandoned conscious thought, and leaned into Aziraphale, feeling the shape of the angel’s lips and the warmth of his hands and the weight of his body. 

When Aziraphale pulled away, Crowley let him go reluctantly.

“What I was _trying_ to say _,_ is that - oh, fuck,” swore Aziraphale. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” said Crowley. 

“No, I do, I really do,” said Aziraphale. He stood up from the kitchen table and began pacing. 

“What if I already know?” asked Crowley. 

“That doesn’t matter,” said Aziraphale. “I need to say it anyways. Otherwise, you’ll never hear it.” He inhaled violently. “I’m glad you were the serpent in Eden. I’m glad that you kept popping up where I was stationed, completely unannounced. And right now, most of all, I’m glad that you came back from Egypt. Because I love you.” 

Crowley felt a knot in his belly that he thought would never loosen come undone, and he stood up and turned to face Aziraphale, fully. 

“That so?” he said. 

“That so,” said Aziraphale, and then the angel burst into tears. Crowley instinctively spread his wings and folded them around Aziraphale, and Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley’s neck. Crowley could feel the angel’s chest heave against his own with every breath, and he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale as well. They stood in the kitchen for a long while, shrouded together in a cloak of soft, black feathers. 

Then Aziraphale stepped back and wiped his face on his sleeve. “I mean it,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, who could I could take to dinner or the park or the theatre? Michael? The Antichrist? Or God forbid, Gabriel?” 

“So you’re saying that I’m better company than two despots and an eleven-year-old,” said Crowley. 

“Yes,” said the angel. “And I’m also saying that I couldn’t imagine a better past six thousand years unless we had stopped discorporating each other a few millennia sooner.”

“Then you lack imagination,” said Crowley. 

“If I do,” Aziraphale said, “it’s a good thing you’re around, then.” 

“I’m a demon of many talents,” said Crowley, with a smirk. 

Aziraphale smiled at that, with a lightness that Crowley did not think he had ever seen before. “Come on. It’s a beautiful day out. I could use some fresh air.” 

“Whatever you say, angel,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale led them out of the kitchen, through the store, and over the threshold. He locked the bookshop’s doors up behind them. Crowley folded up his wings and slid his sunglasses back onto his face. 

Then they stepped out into the sunshine, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left! 
> 
> 1\. The Ark of the Covenant _was_ briefly in Tanis, and currently resides in an [American warehouse](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raiders_of_the_Lost_Ark).  
> 2\. Crowley's thoughts are inspired by quotes by Flemeth in Dragon Age II ("We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap.") and by Kreia, in Knights of the Old Republic II ("It is such a quiet thing, to fall. But far more terrible is to admit it.")


	8. Epilogue: A Cloudless Blue Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tying up loose ends.

“You’re still here,” said Crowley

“Why wouldn’t I be? You invited me into your flat,” said Aziraphale, indignantly. 

They were sitting on the white leather sofa in Crowley’s lounge. Aziraphale occupied the left end, and Crowley spilled over the rest. His feet hang over the armrest, and his head rested in the angel’s lap. Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hair idly. The telly was playing a documentary about penguins, and the sun was setting in gorgeous shades of red and violet outside the window. But no heed was paid to either the penguins or the sunset. 

“Just checking,” said Crowley.

“In case I turned into Hastur or Beezelbub or Mephistopheles?” said Aziraphale. Crowley winced at that. Aziraphale tensed, and he began, “My dear, I was only -” 

“I know,” said Crowley. He shifted his position on the sofa. “I ran into Hastur in Egypt, actually.” 

“You didn’t mention that before,” said Aziraphale. 

“It didn’t seem important at the time.”

“Go on, then. Tell me what happened to Hastur.” 

“I sent him to give his regards to Ligur,” said Crowley. “With a flaming sword through the chest.” 

Aziraphale’s face lit up at that. “You figured out how to wield the sword after all!” 

“Only just in time. He was about to bash my head in.” Crowley remembered the way that he’d felt fire surge through the sword when Hastur had threatened Aziraphale. “It’s rather unreliable. Are you sure I can’t have yours instead?”

“Absolutely sure, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “My sword was literally made for me. Anyways, yours has warmed up to you already.”

“A tire iron would have been less disappointing,” Crowley grumbled. He fiddled with the buttons on Aziraphale’s waistcoat, buttoning and unbuttoning them at random. “If I have the sword, does that make you Lancelot or Guinevere?” 

“What a fine kettle of fish that was,” groaned Aziraphale. “Don’t suppose you had anything to do with it?” 

“Nah,” said Crowley. “They did that all by themselves.” 

“Of course they did,” sighed the angel. “We were so caught up with thwarting Hell’s agents - Meleagant and Morgan and even your Black Knight - that we lost track of them. Forty years of stability down the drain because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

“Head office recalled almost all the field staff after that, citing _budget overruns_ and _changes in the strategic vision_. But the real reason was - well, what was the point of having visions and blessings and Grail quests if we couldn’t keep the Kingdom together?”

“It does seem like a gross misuse of resources,” said Crowley. Hell was very wasteful, too. Forms in quintuplicate, managers everywhere, nobody ever at their desks when you went to see them. And worst of all, fax machines. “For what it’s worth, angel, Hell had planned Camelot to stand for a few more generations, each more corrupt than the last, until its legacy was properly tarnished and nobody remembered the point of it all. But it fell too soon, and that’s why they _do_ remember it.”

“Still plunged Britain back into the dark ages,” ranted Aziraphale. “You’d think it might have turned out better, since the King loved his Knight and his Queen both, and the two loved him dearly in return.” He quieted again, as if struck again by the loss, though it had happened fourteen centuries ago. “What a waste.” 

“Unless it was all _meant_ to happen that way,” interjected Crowley. “Who’s to say their falling in love wasn’t part of the plan?” 

“Maybe,” said Aziraphale. “But we can’t be sure. What was the _point_ of Camelot, if it was just to fall into the dark ages right after?” 

“What was the point of prophecizing the Apocalypse, and then letting it get called off on short notice?” countered Crowley. 

“There’s only one who knows, and He’s not sharing. Just - if two idiots in love can thwart the machinations of Heaven and Hell in Camelot -” Aziraphale trailed off, but his fingers glided slowly down, from the top of Crowley’s head, over the angles of his jaw, to the hollow of his throat. 

Crowley swallowed and tried not to shiver. “Personally, I think you could be either Lancelot or Guinevere, since you’ve got the kissing part down pat,” he said, lightly. “No idea you had that in you, angel -” 

“I don’t tell you everything,” said Aziraphale demurely. “And if it’s all the same, I’d hope I was neither of those two fools.” 

“Or maybe both?” suggested Crowley, as innocently as he could sound while buttoning up Aziraphale’s waistcoat the wrong way. 

“Not unless you took up the mantle of Camelot and started fomenting peace in the Isles, bringing about a golden age of peace and prosperity,” said Aziraphale firmly, and swatted Crowley’s hands away from his buttons. 

“Oh,” Crowley shuddered. “Absolutely not.” He changed the topic rather than dwell on the horror of the angel’s suggestion. “How did you get my car back to my building in one piece?” he asked. The angel looked consternated, and fidgeted with Crowley’s collar. “Or do I even want to know?”

“I asked Newt to drive us back,” the angel admitted.

“Knew I shouldn’t have asked,” muttered Crowley.

“I’ll have you know that the young man did an _excellent_ job, given the circumstances,” said Aziraphale.

“What circumstances?” yelped Crowley. He imagined Newt with a tender Indonesian sunburn, chauffeuring a wildly emotional angel, as Freddie Mercury wailed in the background at increasing volumes. He felt very sorry for the Bentley. 

“Well, we took a wrong turn on the M25 and ended up in the Hanger Lane gyratory, and then we tried to do a U-turn -” 

“Say no more, angel,” said Crowley immediately. He took several deep breaths and tried to drive from his mind the image of Newt and Aziraphale blocking three lanes of honking traffic as they scrabbled for the nonexistent roadmap in the glove compartment. 

“- and then somehow, we wound up on the median in Piccadilly Circus,” Aziraphale continued blithely. “The cabbies did not appreciate that at all, and then the bobbies showed up -” 

“I’m begging you,” moaned Crowley, “to _please_ stop telling me about how you and Newt nearly wrecked my car.” Then he saw the wicked gleam in Aziraphale’s eye. “Oh,” he said, in realization. 

“And Anathema sends her love,” said the angel, serenely. 

“You devil,” said Crowley. 

“Newt really did drive the car back to London,” admitted Aziraphale, “but it was very uneventful, after I checked him for glamours and demonic possession.” 

“Perhaps we ought to establish shibboleths,” Crowley said. “Some kind of codephrase or secret handshake or something, in case anything like - anything like Hastur happens again. Not that I expect any trouble from my side, though it’s hardly my side anymore. I bet they think I eat pieces of the True Cross for breakfast nowadays.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Really.”

“It’s amazing what a few well-placed threats and a nicely-lubricated gossip mill can do,” Crowley observed innocently. “I expect that in a few weeks, I’ll be the bogeyman they set upon demons who fail to meet their productivity targets. A walking performance improvement plan.” 

“Strange that you mention that,” said Aziraphale. “I received a letter of commendation from Gabriel while you were in Egypt. The discorporation of a Duke of Hell does wonders for one’s reputation.”

“Did it take so little to get back in their good books?” asked Crowley. 

“It’s more that they don’t want to recall me, in case I sneeze hellfire and incinerate the upholstery. Anyways, my decennial performance reviews were perfectly fine before Ragnar-not, so they suppose I’ll suffice for those minor miracles and blessings, in the absence of any other volunteers for fieldwork,” said Aziraphale. “It appears that the hazards of the job are somewhat higher than they used to be.” He gave Crowley a pointed look. “Word around Heaven is that you eat pieces of the True Cross for breakfast.” 

“How convenient,” said Crowley, smugly. 

“Gabriel loves to gossip,” said Aziraphale, by way of explanation. “Do you think Hell will start sending you assignments again?” 

“Maybe,” said Crowley. “At this point, I hardly think it matters if I complete them or not, but it would be smart to keep sharp. Not let myself go to seed or anything. But just to be safe - shibboleths?” 

“I agree,” said Aziraphale. “Have you got something in mind for yourself?” 

Crowley thought for a moment, and sat up. He put his booted feet on the coffee table and his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and turned to whisper a phrase in the angel’s ear: “ _You’re going home in a fuckin’ ambulance.”_

“Really, Crowley?” said the angel, laughter barely concealed behind a veil of prim disappointment. 

“Serves you right for sending my boys to bed without dinner,” said Crowley. “Alright, angel, what have you got?” 

Aziraphale brought his lips close to Crowley’s ear. “ _And there be those who deem him more than man, and dream he dropt from heaven,_ ” he breathed, and Crowley’s heart quickened as he felt the angel’s words brush over his skin. 

“What the hell does that mean?” asked Crowley. 

“It’s poetry, my dear,” said Aziraphale, dropping his head onto Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Never heard of it,” said Crowley. 

“Of course you haven’t,” said Aziraphale. 

“I’ll never remember it.”

“And I’ll be sure to remedy that,” said Aziraphale, happily. 

“Only after dinner,” said Crowley. “Can I interest you in a spot of _omakase_? There’s a place in Camden I’ve been dying to try.” 

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley. “I’d love that.” His eyes were gentle and blue, and he smelled like a whole cathedral filled with fresh lavender and lit with beeswax candles. Crowley threaded his fingers through the angel’s soft, pale hair, and kissed him. 

It felt like falling upwards into a cloudless blue sky. It felt like a promise for all eternity, at once ineffable in scope and undeniable in certainty. It felt like coming home after a thousand years adrift in space, with only stars for companionship, and only hope for sustenance. 

_Yes,_ Crowley thought, as Aziraphale slid his hand around his waist and pulled him closer. _This is home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this is the last chapter! Thanks again to SilchasRuin and GraphiteGirl for betaing, and thank you to everybody who's read, commented, or left kudos!
> 
> Note 2020-03-14 - just because I wrote this one first doesn't mean it's the end of the 'series' - there are some non-prequels planned...


End file.
